


Mating Games Challenge 5: Picture Challenge

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 66,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the entries for week five of the Mating Games pornathon challenge on LJ.</p><p>For details on what this challenge is: <a href="http://mating-games.livejournal.com/tag/admin%3Afaq">FAQ</a> on LJ</p><p>If you'd like to vote for any of these, you are welcome to even if you aren't a participant in this challenge. You can read how to vote and cast your votes here: <a href="http://mating-games.livejournal.com/10615.html">Voting Post!</a></p><p>In this challenge, teams are already set so we aren't taking any new writers/artists, but you are welcome to participate as a reader/voter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Group A - With Warnings and Pairings

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING -- Chapters 1 and 8 contain artwork that is not safe for work (NSFW).

1.

Pairings: derek/stiles

Warning: none really

Picture used: 6 or as I like to think of it: cute m/m sofa fuck.

"D'rek?" Stiles asks, voice heavy with sleep. They spent the afternoon leisurely fucking until they fell asleep in Stiles's bed. By evening they'd woken and migrated to the sofa; curled up watching Firefly.

Derek's hand stills from slowly petting Stiles's hair, waiting for a reply.

Stiles butts his head into Derek's hand until he resumes. "I'm ready for round four."

"You sure?" His voice cracks, they've been silent for so long in their comfortable, domestic bubble. Derek never thought he'd get moments like this in his life; didn't think he deserved them.

"Mhmm." Stiles rolls over, letting his cheek rest against Derek's cock, already half-hard. The material's rough against his cock, he almost wishes he'd pulled on underwear.

Derek lets his hands trail down from Stiles's hair, down along his neck, watching as Stiles arches up to bare his throat. He runs his fingers lightly over all the marks that he's left there, just now starting to blossom into bruises.

"You're not too sore?"

Stiles shakes his head slightly. "Want more."

"Greedy little pup."

Stiles whole face lights up, grinning. "You got it in you or what?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "And the person who said, 'that's all I can take' and then fell asleep was..."

"Pffbt, that was _hours_ ago. Wanna fuck now."

It's only a second before Stiles is pulling himself and straddling Derek on the sofa. His arms slip over Derek's shoulders and he's right there in Derek's face.

"Hi you." He grins dopily.

Derek half-smiles. "Hey."

It's Stiles that leans in and captures Derek's lips, his own still kiss-bruised. Stiles grinds his already-hard cock against Derek's, groaning into Derek's mouth.

He runs his hands up the back of Stiles's shirt--Derek's shirt--and drags blunt nails drag up Stiles's back, feeling him surge up. Feeling their kiss deepen and Stiles's slip his tongue into Derek's mouth, the slick slide as their spit mingles.

There's no question who's in control here, not as Stiles urges Derek onto his back, pulling away only to strip off his tee. Derek lets out a sound of protest at that, he liked Stiles wearing his shirt.

"Oh shut up, I've gotta smell like I've showered in you."

Stiles tugs at Derek's jeans, until he pulls them off. Derek lets his thighs fall open as Stiles settles between them, he grabs the base of his cock and offers it to Stiles.

"Finally," Stiles whispers as he drags his lips up Derek's hard cock and circling the head; such a fucking tease.

Stiles drops a few kissing onto his thigh, rubbing his cheek against the hair there.

The first touch of Stiles's tongue on his cock makes him moan: yes, good, not enough. Stiles barely hesitates before he _goes_ for it. He never does anything half-heartedly.

Derek can't tear his eyes away from Stiles going down on him, wetly lapping at his head, everything so light and teasing. He can feel his dick jerking as Stiles licks it, feel his balls drawing tighter as Stiles drops to them and sucks right at the base of his cock, between his balls and fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Stiles," Derek growls, grabbing Stiles and urging him up for a kiss.

Stiles is laughing slightly as he pulls away. "Mmm, you taste like lube and come. Delicious." He pulls a face.

Derek rolls his eyes and flips them, pinning Stiles to the sofa.

He tugs off Stiles's worn boxers, hitches his legs up, and runs a hand through Stiles's exposed cleft. There's still some lube smeared around his hole from earlier, but more importantly the plug is still snugly inside Stiles.

Stiles jerks as he nudges it, pulling him down into biting kisses as Derek hooks his finger through the little finger-hole and starts to slowly twist it within Stiles.

"Think I'm still gonna be full of your come?"

Derek pulls at the plug and Stiles shudders.

"Oh yeah, go on, do it, do it," Stiles urges.

Derek can feel him bearing down on the plug and so he tugs.

Stiles's hole is there, a string of come clinging to the end of the plug, Derek's dropped three loads up there today and fuck, there's going to be at least one more.

"You're so fucking good for me," he whispers, dipping a finger in and pressing down on Stiles's stretched out ring.

Stiles's cock jerks and he's finally speechless as Derek pushes his fingers further in, letting his own spunk and left-over lube coat them.

"Derek..."

"Soon," he promises, pushing his fingers further in and he can steadily stroke down against Stiles's prostate, just to watch him arch off of the sofa.

"Fucker!"

Derek grins. He's going to love filling that hole up again.

* * *

2.

 **Pairings:** Danny/Stiles

 **Warning:** None

 **Picture used:** 6

 **Title:** Quiet Moments

These are the moments that Stiles secretly treasures, like some lovesick teenage girl. Honestly, though, he can’t find it in himself to care. Because these are his moments to hold onto, his moments to do what he wants with, his and Danny’s moments. They are few and far between right now, living on separate ends of the country, and he has the right to pick and choose the ones he wants to really savor.

Stiles tangles their fingers together and kisses Danny’s knuckles that peek out from between his. He doesn’t say anything, but feels Danny huff in fond exasperation against his neck, where he’s licking against his pulse point.

It’s late Saturday night, the first weekend of Spring Break, and Danny has only just gotten off the plane a couple hours ago. Stiles loves his dad for “having a thing” that left them an entire empty house for the weekend. Especially right now, when they’re sitting completely naked on the couch, Stiles’ leg thrown across Danny’s lap and their erections stiff between them, while they kiss and touch lazily, just happy to be with one another.

“I missed you.” Stiles doesn’t mean to say it again, because he knows Danny knows (especially since he’s told him probably 20 times since he walked in the door only an hour ago), but he can’t help himself. Senior year had been the best year of Stiles’ life, because that’s when he and Danny had come together. Stiles had always known he probably had a thing for guys, too. It was just that his love for Lydia had always overshadowed it. But when Danny had been captured by those damn Brownies at the beginning of senior year...

Well, Stiles’ reaction surprised no one, except maybe himself. But even then, he’d known that he’d had a thing for Danny for a while. It just needed a kickstart.

Being separated for college after a really amazing year together is far from easy and Stiles is not shy about expressing how excited he is that it’s almost summer vacation, because everyone can just come home. But he’s more happy that Spring Break is an actual thing.

Danny sucks a deep mark into Stiles’ collarbone, eliciting a moan of appreciation from Stiles, before pulling back. The hand not linked with Stiles’, settles gently on the side of his face and turns Stiles to look at him.

Danny’s eyes are warm, open, inviting and Stiles finds himself smiling softly at him. Danny smiles back. “I missed you, too.” And then he moves his hand behind Stiles head and pulls him forward to kiss him.

The kiss starts off sweet; a gentle caress of their tongues together and the occasional scrape of teeth. But then Danny tilts his head just so and slots their mouths together. It’s immediately wet and hot and dirty and Stiles finds himself straddling Danny’s lap and aching for more.

Stiles tangles his hands into Danny’s hair and pulls gently, while Danny’s hands first settle at Stiles’ waist and then slip down to knead at his ass. Stiles groans into Danny’s mouth and rolls his hips forward, causing their cocks to slide together sinuously.

They moan into each other’s mouths as Stiles continues to rolls his hips and Danny let’s his fingertips move closer and closer to Stiles’ hole, neither one willing to break the kiss. Danny finally let’s the tip of his middle finger stroke across Stiles’ opening before slipping it inside and then further to the second knuckle.

Stiles gasps and arches his back. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters and wraps his hand around both their cocks, grip tight and strokes firm. “Fuck, I love you.”

Danny attacks Stiles’ mouth again and Stiles’ hand moves quicker, release only a moment away if they could just reach it together. Stiles feels his balls tighten up, feels the way Danny’s breath stutters against his lips, and knows.

On one last stroke, Danny slips his index finger in beside his middle and Stiles falls over the edge, coming hard against Danny’s chest and stomach, his own hand. Danny watches and as Stiles gives him a few more strokes, twisting his wrist just so at the head, he grunts into Stiles’ collarbone and follows.

They are a mess, but Stiles can’t find it in himself to move. So, he rests his forehead against Danny’s shoulder and just breathes, Danny’s fingers still buried in his ass.

Danny sounds sleepy, but content when he says, “I love you, too.”

* * *

3.

Pairings: Lydia Martin/Erica Reyes/Stiles Stilinski

Warning: None as far as I'm aware

Picture used: #2

Stiles always suspected that something was going on with Erica and Lydia. It wasn’t overly obvious, of course and could entirely just be wishful thinking on his part.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Stiles stood gapping in the doorway, his college bag having dropped heavily to the ground when he first caught sight of – well, that. Lydia was stretched out, naked except for a pair of fishnet stockings, across the table, her legs spread and one hand above her head, clutching the edge of the table, whilst the other was buried into Erica’s blond hair, holding her in place firmly, despite the fact that it was obvious that Erica could break away anytime she wanted.

And it didn’t seem like she did. Her legs were spread and parted, her backside, red from what looked like handprints but slowly healing, up and poised, and she eat noisily at Lydia’s pussy. She panted and slurped and her hands were shaking as she clutched at Lydia’s pale thighs, as if she were a drug addict getting her fix. Stiles, he…well, he stared, a lot, committing everything to memory because this had to go into his wank bank. No question about it.

After a few seconds, and with the girls seeming as if they were in no way planning to stop, Stiles was beginning to wonder whether they had noticed him. Maybe he should clear his throat? Shut the door loudly and then enter the room? Shout out “hello” or probably the more accurate word “Fuck”? But he was saved from having to say anything, by Lydia cracking her eyes open and turning her head to face him. He thought maybe she was going to shout at him or something for just staring, but instead she grinned, predatorily, dangerously, and if he wasn’t hard before, he definitely was now.

“Good, you’re here,” she said, her voice breathless and rough, despite the composer of her words, “She’s been like this for hours waiting for you. Not that she minds, do you Erica?”

What Erica said, was muffled by pussy and Lydia tipped her head back moaning at the vibrations. She glanced at Stiles again.

“She’s good, but she learnt from the best,” Lydia continued, and Stiles watched as she rubbed her pussy on Erica’s face, her lean hips thrusting upwards and thighs quaking a little at the pressure.

“I…” Stiles tried to say something, although he wasn’t sure what, and his voice cracked, “I don’t…”

“But sometimes, pussy isn’t enough. And as much as she loves a strap-on, she hasn’t experienced the real life. I wouldn’t want to deprive her,” the redheaded sex temptress arched an eyebrow challengingly at him, “Can you help with that?”

“I-yes,” Stiles blurted out.

Lydia hummed appreciatively, “Good. Strip.”

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice. He struggled out of his clothes, his foot getting caught in his jeans and his t-shirt getting stuck around his head, before they finally hit the floor, and the whole time his eyes were locked on the two girls. Lydia ordered Erica to her feet, marched the unsteady girl over to their cupboard, and spread her out across her. Erica’s legs fell apart easily and her head was resting against Lydia’s stomach when the redhead laid across the lounge chair beside it. Lydia spread her legs and encouraged Erica’s hand down to between her legs, and then sighed at the insistent rubbing.

Lydia then looked at Stiles again. “Would you hurry up?”

He approached on shaky ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ legs, and swallowed a little when he saw the lust in Erica’s face, the plea to come, and the way her pussy convulsed with the need to be filled. Fumbling with a condom – Lydia was always prepared – he slid it down his cock and, with a moment’s hesitation to get Lydia’s permission, he pushed into Erica’s open hole. Her pussy clung to him eagerly, greedily, and both he and Erica let out moans of pleasure.

“Hold her legs up,” Lydia ordered. Stiles fumbled to oblige, keeping Erica spread, before thrusting forward.

Lydia scoffed. “Oh come on, Erica can take hard than that. She wants you to fuck her, so do it right.”

Erica shivered all over at the words and made a noise of approval and Stiles, well, he drew out so just the head of his cock stayed in, watching the urgent way she tried to grabbed at him again, before he thrust forward sharply. His balls slapped against her arse, and his grip tightened on her thighs as he tried to get more purchase.

Lydia watched him approvingly, before looking down at Erica, tracing the seam of her lips. “Is that good Erica? Can you feel him, all of him? He’s so hard isn’t it, and you’re so wet. So wet for Stiles to take you, so wet from eating my pussy. Hmm…” she dipped her head for a kiss, filthy and dirty, sucking at her tongue and biting her bottom lip.

When Stiles came, Erica cried out and clung to him, one hand digging into his shoulder and marring it with pink strikes. He looked up shakily at Lydia, as if seeking praise.

She smirked at him. “How long is your refractory period?”

“Uh…”

* * *

4.

 **Pairings:** Allison/Lydia, brief Laura/OMC

 **Warning:** D/S, bondage, voyeurism

 **Picture used:** 13

If there had been any werewolves nearby the first time Stiles called Derek “creeperwolf,” they would have picked up on his racing heartbeat.

Derek was very good at not being noticed, his heightened senses made him a natural at collecting information. Admittedly, he did use his skills to sneak up on people sometimes, much more difficult when it was a pack member, easy as breathing when it was Stiles, hence the nickname he bestowed on Derek.

But Stiles was resourceful, and for a few moments of internal panic, Derek thought he must have found out his secret.

* * *

It was just curiosity the first time. He came home early after school because coach canceled practice. The smells and noises coming from the house, specifically from Laura's bedroom, he _knew_ it was sex, but he didn't _really_ know. He was 13. His knowledge of sex came from other 13-year-olds in the lunchroom.

So he climbed into the tree nearest Laura's bedroom, knowing the forest would provide adequate cover, especially because Laura was too preoccupied to pay attention. She must have ditched last period, knowing no one would be home until at least five.

Her boyfriend wasn't a werewolf. He was just a guy in her grade at school. He was thrusting into her as she lay back, her legs spread wide. The noises she made sounded an awful lot like pain, but she clearly wasn't in pain. Her boyfriend was panting and grunting with every thrust.

Derek was almost instantly hard. Yes, he would pop a boner at the way his jeans rubbed against him sometimes, but this was a direct causal link. He'd seen a porno before, and it was hot, but it was nothing like seeing it live.

He didn't jerk off in the tree right then, but when he took a shower that night, it was all he could picture as he stroked himself. He cut Laura out of his fantasy, replacing her with a generic face. The image of two sweaty, naked bodies thrusting and slapping together was enough to get him off.

And so a pattern emerged in the sexual exploration of Derek Hale.

* * *

He was supposed to meet Lydia later to talk about the goblin problem, but it was pouring down rain and he cut his run short. He went in through the backdoor and was immediately assaulted with the scent of woman—two women, specifically.

He slipped upstairs and down the hallway to the closed door.

Through the keyhole, he could see them. Allison was tied up on the bench, her ass sticking up in the air, arms tied above her head, ankles bound, wearing nothing but a pair of thigh-high stockings. She looked wrecked and gorgeous and calm.

* * *

Allison had talked to him about it some. It was a shock to Derek that _he_ was the one she came to after everything with Gerard, her mother, Erica and Boyd. She needed to talk about Kate, about her family, and how they kept manipulating her, but how she kind of liked it in a twisted way. At first Derek pretended not to understand, but he did. He understood better than she knew. So he pointed her in the right direction.

She tried a dom she met in a BDSM club, but it didn't work out.

She tried with Scott, both when they were off-again and on-again, but he couldn't give her what she needed either.

Enter Lydia.

* * *

Derek grew aroused as Lydia, in heels and a black corset, pushed a dildo into Allison's pussy. She tugged on Allison's hair, pulling hard enough to make her back arch in a beautiful curve and her breasts push forward.

She draped herself over Allison, whispering in her ear that she was such a good girl. That she had been so good that Lydia was going to let her come.

Derek was never more grateful he didn't change back into jeans after his aborted run. He slid his hand down the front of his track pants and grabbed his cock, already hard from the peep show, and pumped it in time with Lydia's pace as she fucked the toy into Allison.

“Come any time, love,” Derek heard Lydia whisper.

Allison fell apart shortly thereafter, and like a trigger Derek tensed and spilled into his hand.

He allowed himself a couple deep breaths before he crept silently down the stairs.

* * *

5.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: None

Picture used: 6

_does the cute hipster in the kitchen belong to you?_

Derek closes his eyes, reminding himself that it’s Laura’s job as the older sibling to be excruciatingly annoying.

_if not i want to bang those glasses off his face_

He throws the phone on the bed and stalks into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as he crosses his arms over his chest. Stiles is sitting at the kitchen table, foot tapping restlessly against the leg of the chair while he frowns at an open book. His fingers drum some random pattern against the rim of his black frames.

“Valkyries are the _worst_ ,” Stiles says without looking up. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met one, Laura, but even if you have, it can’t be said often enough.”

Laura hums, smiling innocently at Derek. He knows she’s only needling him, but then Laura always knew which buttons to push. When it comes to Stiles, everything is a button to push.

“Don’t believe them if they say they’re only bringing soldiers who died in battle to Valhalla. I mean, unless a rapidly healing alpha werewolf counts as a dead soldier, then I suppose they were telling the truth.”

“Hm,” Laura says again, smile growing. “So, what’d you do?”

“Drove a magic wand through her chest.” Stiles shrugs. “Wasn’t gonna let Valhalla suffer through eternity with McBroodyWolf.”

Laura laughs, delighted, before growing suddenly serious. “Hey, that’s my brother, you know.”

Stiles looks up, sheepish, and opens his mouth to speak when he sees Derek and stops, narrows his eyes and says, “No.”

Derek frowns. “No, what?”

“Just no.” Stiles waves his hand at him. “You’ve used your shirtless quota for the month.”

“You used your smartass remark quota within the first hour, so I think we’re even.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “So, what’s up, Rainier Wolfcastle?”

Derek is about two seconds from changing his mind until Stiles grins crookedly.

“Bedroom,” Derek says, nodding his head and ignoring Laura’s shaking shoulders.

Stiles gets to his feet while making a face. “Wow, as always, I’m extremely impressed by your wooing skills.”

“The wooing phase is over.”

“Can I put in a formal complaint on that?”

Derek kicks the bedroom door shut behind them and ignores Laura’s loud complaints about rudeness and guests. He also ignores Stiles asking him what got into him all of a sudden, like they’ve never decided to fuck in the middle of the day before.

Granted, it’s been a while, but that’s all the more reason to start again.

Derek grabs Stiles mid-speech and kisses him roughly, running his thumb across Stiles’ jaw. Sweat is cooling on Derek’s skin from his earlier workout, raising goosebumps in the wake of Stiles’ fingers. Stiles smiles against his lips. That’s one thing Derek has always found appealing in a strange way about having sex with Stiles: how Stiles reacts to everything with his mouth. There are little half-smiles, just the barest hint of tugging at the corners, and full-out wicked grins.

The best might be when his lips are parted – too far gone to do anything else.

He only takes a moment to think about this, nipping at Stiles’ bottom lip, before pushing Stiles down on the bed to climb on top of him with intent.

They fuck like they don’t have any practice (when, usually, this is the one thing they know how to do in the vast sea of everything they suck at). The rhythm is off and a little clumsy as Derek fucks into him, fast and unrestrained, and Stiles rolls his hips to meet him. But it works anyway, with Stiles’ fingers digging into his back and his legs wrapped around Derek’s hips.

 

Stiles makes content little moans, grinning up at him like he’s particularly pleased with the latest hitch of his hips. And when he reaches out and grabs Derek’s hand, linking their fingers, Derek has to look away for a moment, dropping his gaze to study the way Stiles takes his cock. He pushes Stiles upwards on the bed with every thrust and Stiles laughs, shaky and giddy, before his head bangs into the headboard.

Derek buries his face into Stiles’ neck to hide the curve of his lips, but the puff of air that escapes him and the shake of his shoulders probably give him away.

And he does fuck Stiles’ glasses off his face, technically. Stiles flails his arms so hard when he comes that he knocks them onto the floor, but it counts.

* * *

6.

Pairings: Derek/Isaac

Warning: Incest, a little snowballing, D/S themes, rough sex/deep-throating

Picture used: #4

Isaac woke the same way he’d fallen asleep; with a cock in his mouth.

He rubbed his cheek against his master’s thigh where he laid, moaning. It was instinctive to begin suckling and once he started, he couldn’t stop. This was what he lived for; his master’s taste, the weight of his cock, the way it hardened and lengthened under his ministrations. Nothing compared to the completion, the purpose he felt with his master in his mouth.

A hand in his hair made him open his eyes and look up to see his master smirking down at him. Isaac felt pressure on the back of his head, encouraging him to take the cock deeper. He did so with a happy moan, eyes closing back as he lifted his head to serve his master properly.

His master sighed, petting him. “That’s right, baby,” he said, voice deep and sleep-rough. “God, I love waking up to your mouth.”

The praise made him hot all over, his skin tingling with it, filling him with pride. He tried to speed up his movements, eager to please, but his master stopped him.

“Slowly, baby,” he ordered. He gripped Isaac’s hair tightly, guiding him. “Let me enjoy you.”

The pace was torture but Isaac was obedient. He dragged his mouth slowly up, pausing to suckle the head before sinking back down. His master's grip had only just relaxed, petting Isaac as he was serviced, when the bedroom door flew open.

Isaac tensed, whining around his mouthful but his master, already sitting up on an elbow, shushed him. He pushed Isaac's head down, hips jerking up to fuck his throat deeply, choking him; reassurance.

“It’s okay, sweetling,” Master said as Isaac relaxed against the bed again. “Keep going.”

Isaac did, finding his master’s rhythm again. He heard a sigh behind him and then his pack-mate, Lydia, said, “God, you’re a sick fuck.”

His master began petting him again. “You knew what you were walking into,” he replied. “Maybe next time you’ll knock.”

“Would you have stopped?”

“No.”

She sighed. “You were supposed to be downstairs an hour ago, Derek. We have things to discuss; things that specifically require an Alpha’s attention.”

“It can wait.” Master’s tone was dismissive. “Isaac just woke up.”

“Are you fucking serious?” She hissed. “We’re in a precarious position, we can’t afford to accommodate your fucked up priorities.”

His master gave a low warning growl, the sound vibrating through the entire room, and Lydia fell silent.

This was the way it always was with them. Lydia pushed and Derek had to push back until she stopped; it was the only way she would accept him as Alpha. She constantly made him prove himself and while his master accepted that, it didn’t mean he liked it.

Alphas never liked to be challenged.

Lydia finally conceded. “Five minutes,” she said. “And then I’m dragging you out of that bed, Derek. You don’t have time to fuck your _toy_ all day.”

The door slamming closed was accompanied by another growl, this one full of anger and frustration. The hand in Isaac’s hair tightened and then his master held him still as he began to fuck his mouth again but this time he didn’t stop after a few thrusts. He took Isaac’s mouth, choking him again and again, and Isaac relaxed, letting him. This was what his master needed after Lydia’s pushing - total submission – and Isaac was happy to give it. His purpose was to serve the Alpha, to give what was needed.

“Don’t swallow,” Master ordered just before he spurted into Isaac’s mouth and Isaac obeyed. He kept the release on his tongue until he was pulled up and their lips pressed together.

They kissed slow, deep, pushing the come back and forth until it was long gone, only the taste remaining. His master gave a pleased rumble, finally pulling away. A hand wrapped around Isaac’s erection.

“What do good boys say, Isaac?” His master asked as his hand began to move.

Isaac moaned, falling forward to whisper in his ear, “thank you, big brother.”

* * *

7.

Pairings: Allison/Derek/Erica

Warning: Unsafe sex

Picture used: #2

Her nametag read “Allison” and it suited her. Bouncy curls and deep dimples that she couldn’t hide to save her life because she smiled all the time. She was polite and meticulous, always professional.

It drove Derek crazy.

One morning he forgot something and rushed back into his room but stopped at the sight of the maid bent over his tub, scrubbing it out.

Wearing thigh-high stockings with an honest-to-god garter belt. 

Who fucking _did_ that anymore?

The door slammed closed and she jumped. Derek apologized for scaring her, grabbed his belongings and left a bigger than normal tip that day.

His first day.

Four days later his trip was ending and she arrived to clean his room. He was checking out late, meetings done, so he didn’t have to rush off.

She didn’t come alone today, though, a bored looking blonde with her. She gave Derek an appraising look on her way in and disappeared with the brunette into the bathroom.

Derek puttered around the room for a bit, gathering up the last of his things. The door to the bathroom was closed most of the way but he could hear muffled talking between the two maids.

He could hear breathy moans, like someone was trying _so_ hard to be quiet drifting out. He moved closer and could hear something rhythmic and familiar.

He crept closer and caught an angle of the bathroom in the mirror through the ajar door. The blonde had Allison on the sink with her legs spread. Her panties were around one ankle and the blonde was moving two fingers in and out of Allison’s pussy slowly.

As if she could feel him the blonde met Derek’s eyes in the mirror and smirked.

“She’s ready for you,” she announced and stepped back. Allison let out a strangled moan.

Derek pushed the door open and felt his cock throb in his suddenly-too-tight pants.

“Allison’s been waiting for this all week,” the blonde said. “Thought I’d move things along.”

“ _Erica_!” Allison sputtered. She tried to close her legs and cover herself up but Derek stepped forward.

“Is that true?” He asked, voice low and eyes burning. Allison swallowed hard and nodded. Derek felt a hand snake around his waist and start working on his belt and button. His pants were around his ankles in seconds, his underwear close behind.

Allison’s eyes widened when she watched his thick, hard cock slap against his belly but she reached forward and took it in one hand while she licked the palm of her other and started stroking him.

“Need you in me. Wanted you all fucking week,” she muttered as she jerked him. Her hand was small but fit around him like a tight glove. Derek could see her red pussy, slick from her own arousal and whatever else Erica’d done to her. 

Allison pulled Derek forward and wasted no time guiding Derek’s cock into her. They both groaned at the feeling--her hot and tight, him thick and full. It was all incredibly perfect--the angle, the height of the sink, the way Allison’s legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him in with her heels digging into his ass.

Erica joined them by pulling Allison’s plain blue maid’s uniform open and pushed her lacy bra down so she could suck on Allison’s perfect, perky nipples. Allison gasped and squeezed around Derek.

His thrusts were already falling out of rhythm and he could feel his balls tightening up. He ground out as much as he struggled for control so Erica moved one of her hands between them and worked Allison’s clit between her deft fingers.

Allison clenched around him more and more until she was clutching at his arm with one hand and pulling Erica’s hair with the other. Derek felt her climax, then quickly pulled out and stroked himself just twice before he came all over her abdomen. 

Erica ran her finger through the mess and sucked it off slowly, staring Derek in the eyes.

His cock twitched.

“Need anymore help with your checkout?” Erica asked with a smirk.

* * *

8.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: cross dressing

Picture used: 3

Stiles throws his keys onto the kitchen table, one hand already working on the knot in his tie. He wonders how the _hell_ his dad got away with not wearing one, when he'd been sheriff.

The house is quiet around him, but the silence is unique in a way that means Derek is home.

He's proved right, when he slips into their bedroom. Derek is propped up against the headboard, a book open and resting against one forearm. He's shirtless. His boxers are slung low over his hips, bunched tight across his crotch, from the way Derek's legs are crossed. He doesn't look up at Stiles, but the smile that quirks at his lips means he's fully aware of Stiles' presence.

"Hey you."

"How was your day?" Derek replies, still not looking up. He flips a page

Stiles doesn't answer. Instead, he makes a point of stripping, the fabric rustling and finally getting Derek's attention.

Derek blinks, and his eyes darken when Stiles works the last button free, shrugging the brown uniform shirt onto the floor. Derek's legs uncross, almost without him seeming to realize it.

The white wife beater Stiles is wearing is sweat soaked from the summer heat. It clings, hot and wet, smelling strongly even to Stiles, to the private skin beneath his arms. It does nothing to hide the edges of the frilly red bra he's wearing underneath, the color muted through the cotton, almost pink.

Derek puts his book down on the night stand. He crawls-- _Jesus_ , Stiles loves this man, even after so many years-- on hands and knees to the edge of the bed. His dick hangs between his thighs, cradled by his boxers, and half hard now.

Stiles licks his lips, lets Derek hook a finger beneath the edge of his belt, to pull him forward.

"What's this?" Derek asks, pressing his face against Stiles' neck, breathing deeply. One of his hands traces the edges of the bra, even as his other hand sets to work at Stiles' belt.

"You like? Been wearing this all day. Just for you." Stiles murmurs, pulling away and letting his momentum pull the belt free from its loops, the buckle still fisted in Derek's hands. The sound it makes is nothing compared to Derek's groan when Stiles steps out of the restricting cloth of his pants.

"Jesus Stiles."

The panties are white, decorated with little red stars, and distorted from where Stiles' own dick is starting to harden. They're framed by bright red-- to match the bra-- stockings. They hug his thighs, framing his crotch like a fucking landing strip.

Stiles almost hadn't had the courage to put them on that morning. He's glad he did.

Derek traces a thumb across the across the thin strip of bare skin between the edges of the panties and the stockings, and then in a move almost too fast for Stiles to comprehend, Derek is reversing their positions. Stiles ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress with Derek between his thighs.

Derek leans down, catches the edge of Stiles white wife beater with his teeth, lifting it a few inches, before his hands take over. Stiles obligingly lifts his arms so the shirt can slide off easily.

When Derek settles back down, he pauses only long enough to lick a damp line down Stiles' right side, tasting the salty sweaty skin there, and then Derek's on his knees. He's mouthing at Stiles' dick through the white fabric of the panties, and it it's...fuck, it's intense. He's not even fully fucking naked yet, but Stiles is already fighting not to buck his hips helplessly against Derek's face.

"Walked around at work-- _fuck Derek_ \-- fucking arrested people today," Stiles gasps, fisting his hands in Derek's hair to keep his mouth on Stiles' dick, "wearing a bra and panties. For-- _jesus. oh my god_ \-- for _you_ , asshole."

Derek hums, says "so sexy," and pulls back, licking his lips. He grabs Stiles' hips and hikes him further up the bed, before settling on top of him. One of his hands cups across Stiles chest, flicking at his nipples through the bra. Stiles arches his back, bares his throat.

"Gonna fuck you Stiles. Fuck you like a girl, on your back. 'S what happens when you wear shit like this," Derek growls.

And Stiles...Stiles is totally on board with that.

* * *

9.

Pairings: Allison/Erica

Warning: NON-CON, AU where Allison was indoctrinated into Hunting first, before she met Scott and before he got the bite.

Picture used: 13

"That's the last of them," Allison says, tone hard and steely despite the flutter of nerves that set her whole body on fire, that made her tingle, kiss of adrenaline fervor in the rose of her cheeks, the gasp of her breath. Nevertheless she straightens her back, squares her shoulders, sets her jaw and meets her grandfather's gaze head on as she rattles off the rest of the report, the statistics, the casualties, what they need to stock up on, who they need to mark off as lost.

"Very well done, Allison," she is told, and her just now, just a second, a flowering of pride deep in her chest.

She almost smiles. Instead, a perfunctory nod. "If that's all--"

A mewling from their feet, a feral wild growling. Her grandfather's boot makes contact with the cranium, but both of them know that means nothing, steel-toed though it may be. "Your tranquilizer's ineffective."

Allison frowns. "No," she says. "It took the others out easily. They were twice her size. I tihnk she's fighting it."

"Interesting." A murmur, a hum. "See to it that she's subjugated appropriately. We need her docile for the second phase."

"How--"

"However you see fit."

***

_The way she looks at her is sickening._

_The way she fucks her, even worse._

***

The wolf, known as Erica Reyes pre-bite, bares her teeth at Allison. There is no trace of reason in those stark blue eyes, no rational in her beast-addled brain, no humanity in the way she attempts to crouch before Allison, ready to pounce. (She's seen it once before, how the monster consumes the humanity.) But the wolfsbane flooding her veins makes her movements sluggish, topples her over.

It's almost admirable, the way she shakes herself back, the way she claws for balance. It's kittenish, not lupine.

Neither makes Allison fond of her.

Bitches are often the most unpredictable. Their bites the most potent. They have a primal desire to outlast, to outthink, to one-up them, an illusion of superiority ruling them until they are shown their place. Often a jolt (or a thousand) of electricity does that for any other wolf, but bitches are different.

There's really only one way to speak to them, only one language to make them understand.

She grabs the wolf with leather gloved hands, drags her with one hand over to the room meant specifically for this sort of taming.

***

_She makes a show of it, of wearing the cock with the wide base, the color an ugly red against her pale hips, her corseted waist._

_She makes her lick it, fingers painful in her curls, nails digging in her scalp, makes her gag on it until she's choking, the corners of her eyes teary from the pain, the back of her throat raw from the abuse._

_And then she bends her over._

_"I'm not done with you yet."_

 

***

She stabs her neck with another dose of the wolfsbane, taking a delicious sort of delight in the way she thrashes briefly, fighting the poison, before her body goes the tiniest bit slack.

On any other-- on a _woman_ \-- the wolf's features would be beautiful. Pretty. Vivacious and gregarious, had she a soul. But all Allison sees is the beast, the evil, and always, the question.

Just one question. She doesn't trust she'd ever get the answer, nor that it would satisfy her. Answers to loss are oases in deserts, temporary reprieves to stave the madness of drought.

She yanks the wolf by her hair, shoving her to her knees while she makes quick work of her clothing. Tatters and rags already; it's easy to drag the blade edge of her knife to cut through the fabric. If they glance against skin, deep or shallow, matters little.

Her breasts are pert, her skin voluminously healthy with the glow of, likely, having just fed.

A shiver of pure loathing.

One question.

Was it you?

***

_The first thrust is brutal._

_She cries out, or she thinks she does. She tries not to, but there it is again, splitting her open, tearing at her walls, an unnatural knot that comes at her in a barrage, like a steel ram foreign and terrible._

_The first thrust is brutal._

_Sharp nails scritch shallow cuts on her, a hard tug and her throat is bared but no one touches her there. Instead, a sudden pinch on her nipples, a bolt of voltage that has her yowling._

***

The last leaves her numb.

* * *

10.

 **Pairings:** Allison/Scott/Stiles

 **Warning:** Dub-Con of the Sex Pollen/Forced Heat variety and Genderbending

 **Picture used:** Number 2

 

“Oh my god how do you guys even do this?!” Allison groaned, struggling valiantly against the urge to just fall forward and start blindly thrusting until this awful _wonderful_ pressure building in her body finally found some sort of outlet. The friction was unbearably good and really the only thing keeping her from coming was the somewhat serious circumstances and the very secret desire to see Scott writhing his way to orgasm on her newly acquired dick.

“Don’t guys just picture gross things or something?” She demanded to know a little desperately.

“I w-wouldn’t recommend it.” Stiles advised, breathless. His expression a mixture of curiosity, intense arousal, and vague horror. Most of his clothes were still on she noticed but then she couldn’t blame him. It’ s not like she didn’t know the benefits of having jeans force your hand just so. His movements were restless, erratic and clearly resentful. It helped. “You aren't exactly an expert and there is a fine line between control and Limp Dick Syndrome using that method.”

Gasping little “ _Oh, oh, ohs_!” were Scott’s contribution to the conversation. His eyes were half closed and glowing and even in this form he was stupidly attractive to her. She was enthralled with the way his body curved around hers, thoroughly distracted by the way his breasts rocked and bounced beneath her. She wasn’t sure which was weirder, that they were bigger than hers and there OR, that she just re~ally wanted to get her mouth on them.

“Damnit Stiles!” She forced herself to rear back a bit, wetly sucked her thumb into her mouth.

“Don’t say it.” He whined. The three of them lay sprawled in his bed, having managed to get setup before the worst of it hit and they were doomed to hours of awkward positioning and questionable stains on the living room furniture. There was nothing they could do for the claw marks though. Not a single clue how to explain those.

“I told you so. I said it was better to wait and get the full translation first!” She continued on, ignoring his pleasure-choked protests and trying to dredge up the coordination to keep thrusting and stop her knees from sliding all over the sheets. To keep working Scott’s clit in a firm, steady rhythm. he could take it. He was actually shaking at this point, overheated and so wet she couldn’t help but wince in sympathy.

Trust Stiles to be the one to find the rare magical artifact designed to bring the pack closer together and accidentally trigger it with his particular brand of unintentional genius.

Pack prosperity apparently somehow translated into switching all their genders so Scott could go into heat and instigate a group orgy. The only reason Derek and his pack weren’t taking part was because Stiles managed to ring the room with Mountain Ash and they could control themselves.

Somewhat.

“ _Oh god_!” He was writhing now. She could feel the pressure building, sparking blissful shocks of pleasure through her body. Allison watched, hopelessly turned on, as Stiles frantically mouthed and sucked on Scott’s nipple. Pretty soon he was shaking too, keening helplessly and drooling as he roughly worked himself to orgasm. The wet smack of his fingerfucking rivaling the steady clap of flesh against flesh from her viciously focused thrusts. By the time Stiles brought his hand up to languorously stroke and squeeze himself in primitive feline satisfaction Scott was _there_.

“He’s going to howl! Scott you have to be quiet. Scott!” She didn’t dare stop but--

”Hurry and shut him up Stiles, _shut him up_!” Her muscles burned and shook with the effort to keep control, keep steady. If he howled now the others would have no choice but to answer and there is no guarantee the Ash could keep them safe.

He was slow to react but thankfully still managed to pull Scott into a demanding, greedily sloppy kiss just in time. Just before he clamped down and came, body contracting and dragging Allison hoarsely screaming over the edge with him. Until her vision went white and the three of them shudder and collapse into a pile of tangled limbs and unreasonably happy smiles.

* * *

11.

Pairings: Allison/Lydia

Warning:Dom/Sub, bondage

Picture used: 5

A/N - I have referenced a world built by another author - I have the author's permission to do so, but I've left the reference out until reveals. I also have the author's permission for this. if you need more info, let me know

 

Miss Martin studied rope bondage at the Lotus house in Tokyo. When Stiles hears that she’s going to be teaching his class on the same topic, he breaks out in a bit of a sweat. It’s no secret that nearly all the subs at his pleasure house have an unrequited crush on the red-headed Domme. Stiles is no exception. Miss Martin wears thigh-high stockings and a garter belt and her skirts are often short enough that at some point the sway of her hips will cause them to ride up just a little and they are all treated to the sight of her milky white thighs encased in the black lace she favors.

When she steps into the classroom, her red hair like hot lava around her shoulders, she looks over each of them with her green-flinted gaze. Stiles shivers a bit.

She features heavily in all of his _personal time_.

“I’m sure you’ve all studied the syllabus. We’re working on rope bondage today. For those of you that don’t know, I hold a Four Knot distinction in the art, granted to me by the Mistress of the Lotus house.”

Stiles hears some of the students gasp in surprise and awe. Miss Martin doesn’t react to their open and wide faces, but merely snaps her fingers at the door.

“Today, my sub, Miss Argent, of house La Petite Mort, will be assisting me.”

Miss Argent is Miss Martin’s perfect dark mirror. Both of them with creamy white skin but Miss Argent’s hair is dark and glossy to Miss Martin’s fiery red. Miss Martin holds out her hand expectantly and as Miss Argent steps forward, Miss Martin slides her hand up and over Miss Argents arm, across her shoulder and pulls her in close. Miss Argent tucks herself into Miss Martin tightly, fitting in seamlessly.

Stiles can’t help but sigh. He dreams of having a Domme like Miss Martin someday.

“For a slight change, Miss Argent will be showcasing the rope bondage I’d like to go over, using me as her subject.” Miss Martin smiles wryly. “Rest assured, class, I have taught her well.”

Stiles feels his mouth go dry. To see a Domme trust her Sub so implicitly, so completely is incredible. Miss Martin partially disrobes, taking off her long black duster and then she presents the back of her tightly laced half corset to Miss Argent who makes quick work of loosening the laces. Miss Martin shimmies out of her miniskirt and suddenly she stands before them in her bra, panties and garter belts, looking fierce and completely at east.

Miss Argent pulls a long length of rope from the kit bag under the teacher’s desk and as she starts to wind it, Miss Martin lectures the class.

“Watch how she wraps, class. She starts one-third of the way into the length, wrapping it just above my breasts. She pulls it tautly but not tightly. You can see how it cuts into the flesh but it doesn’t harm me. She also doesn’t drag it across me as she works. You don't want to be on the giving or receiving end of rope burn, unless previously agreed to in your contract with your Doms.”

Miss Argent deftly knots the rope a few times, twisting and turning it around Miss Martin’s pale, silky flesh. The rope cuts in gloriously and while it turns the skin pink in places, it’s clearly not hurting her.

Anymore than she is willing to be hurt.

“Miss Argent has worked several intricate knots into the bondage. Please note where she has located them. Under my right breast, making the flesh pop up sharper. Under my left armpit so that I can rest my arm easily, and in between my shoulder blades.”

Stiles is confused about it until Miss Argent assists Miss Martin in lying down, on her back, on the desk. The placement of the knot causes Miss Martin to arch her back around it, displaying her beautifully across the desk.

Splayed over the desk, trussed up in the harsh rope, on display for the class, Miss Martin beckons her sub over with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you being tied up is only for subs,” she breathes, as Miss Argent runs her hands over the pristine expanse of Miss Martin’s chest and Miss Martin licks her lips as Miss Argent leans over her. “It can be very invigorating.”

* * *

12.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: underage implied

Picture used: #6

They're curled together in the overstuffed leather chair Isaac dragged into the loft from some dump site. They're still hard, cocks slick with pre-cum, bodies slick with sweat.

Derek's dick is wet from saliva as well, because, until a few minutes before, Stiles was on the floor between his splayed thighs, sucking it passionately but slowly, just as he was rubbing his own cock slowly, wanting to drag out their second orgasms of the night.

But, then, Derek nudged his head back and Stiles pulled off with a slow pop, panting for air, face flushed, eyes glazed. He licked his lips and Derek reached down and tugged him up, half onto him, draped across him.

The chair is wide enough for them both to crowd onto it, and, really, why would Stiles want to be separate from that insanely gorgeous body? The closer they are, the better, which is why they always ignore the huge, modular couch.

Sex between them is usually rough, fast. They squeeze in moments between research, fighting and running for their lives. A few kisses, a few hard caresses, and most of the time they don't even get naked, just open enough clothes and pull them aside or down to get at heated flesh. Then Stiles is on his back or his elbows and knees and the prep is sloppy and Derek is in him, thrusting fast as if they're in a race. It hurts but in that hurts so good kind of way, so he doesn't mind the lingering ache in his ass.

Derek always makes sure he comes, often twice, because, teenager.

But, sometimes--rarely--they're not running from something or fighting the latest thing to creep into the new hellmouth, as Stiles likes to call it, and they take their time. They undress each other and caress each other and kiss each other all over, and Derek spends twenty minutes opening him up with lubed fingers until he's out of his mind and they're both past the point of readiness.

And the sex is oddly tender, nothing hurried, nothing desperate.

This night saw them in Derek's bed for the first hour, making love, because how could you call it anything else when the kisses are soft, the words are full of caring, the touches are slow and tender? And, after amazing orgasms and a lot of hard breathing and a few growls at the intensity of the pleasure reverberating through them, Stiles got up to get a drink and Derek trailed after him. When Stiles came out of the kitchen, Derek was sprawled on the chair, slowly jacking his cock, and Stiles grinned and strolled towards him, only to drop to his knees between those trembling yet hard as rock thighs.

But, now...Now is different even from that, because they've stopped in the middle and Derek is resting his head on Stiles' shoulder and caressing his cheek, dragging one finger over the lips that so recently were around his dick, and Stiles aches with longing.

The sweetness of those touches almost hurts, but he craves that feeling, and all he can do is catch Derek's hand in his and bring his knuckles to his lips for a kiss that may be a declaration of something they never talk about.

Derek moans softly into his ear. Stiles shivers and kisses him again.

They don't move from the chair. They don't resume the blowjob or start something else. Their cocks soften, but neither seems to care. Slowly their heads turn, their lips find each others, and they kiss so tenderly.

And, when they part, there's something shining in Derek's eyes and he mouths the words because he still has trouble talking, but he still says it first.

Love you.

End

* * *

13.

Pairings: Derek's Dick/Derek's left hand (brief mentions of: future Derek/Stiles, past Derek/Kate)

Picture used: [4](http://i.imgur.com/b72plq3.jpg)

When Derek’s penis first sees (and isn't that a relative term, hah! but the brain sends him messages, so he knows) another dick that’s not one of the pack, he gets really fucking confused.

They're at some grimy gas station, god knows where, and Derek’s dick (whom we'll call Big D, because duh), having been trapped in suffocating circumstances with the low-hangers and Derek's sweaty, hairy thighs, is just happy to be getting some air.

So there's Big D, finally breathing free, finally letting go of all the pressure building up, loving the way it splatters against the porcelain, makes some of the dirt break apart and slide down to the drain, and then he sees him. Or he doesn't, but Derek must glance over at the dude who breaks all urinal etiquette rules and stands _right. next. to. Derek._ even though all the other urinals are empty. (He's wearing leather boots and jacket, ratty jeans, and smells like motor oil and whiskey. In hindsight, Big D will laugh about this, often.)

This other dick is not like Big D. And Big D realizes that Derek, or his brain, had already known about this, had even seen others, as they now flash through a collective knowledge, that Big D didn't have before. He gets pissed, and twitches in Derek’s hand, making Derek swear under his breath. It should probably be said now: Big D can be a bit – sorry, _lot_ – of a dick sometimes. Derek swears, the guy looks over at Derek, and Derek doesn't want any issues, already having some controlling his wolf inside, so Big D gets a shakedown, a rough shove, and they leave.

And Big D is back to being trapped inside of Derek’s too-tight jeans, thinking about the other dick. The way he is now, all snug, a seam pressing just above his root, he supposes he feels okay, but Big D attributes much of that to his built-in blanket, the foreskin, his very own personal snuggie. (If snuggies fit perfectly and didn't leave lint everywhere.) Big D really fucking hated lint. But this other cock, it didn't have a foreskin, and damn, if that’s not an interesting thought. So Big D keeps thinking about it, drawing all the blood it can from the brain, all the fucking knowledge the brain’s been keeping from him, that asshole- sorry, the actual asshole has very little to do with this, and we shouldn't be so crass.

So the brain is a jerk and Big D, with all his dick-knowledge flashing through right now, could really go for a jerk or two from Derek’s left hand. It’s so fascinating, thinking about other dicks now, foreskins and not, and how they might fit, the way Big D is used to thinking about pussies, Kate especially, but he knows that’s not something they’ll talk about again. And maybe it _is_ time for a change of scenery, so other dicks seem like a good place to start.

Big D continues his thinking, all the way to wherever their destination is, he doesn't care, just knows that he can hear Derek and Laura talking beyond the confines of the tight pants, and that Derek waits until she’s gone (her pussy never interested them, something about societal norms Big D didn't get, whatever) to shove his jeans down quickly and finally fucking pull Big D out again.

Derek grips him hard with his left hand, the right one slipping down to tug on the boys and yeah, they’re in business. The brain gives up all control, shutting off but for the minimal images sent down, this time of strong hands pushing and tugging and of another cock, the one Big D remembers from the gas station. Leftie gives Big D just the right amount of pressure, tugging the foreskin back and forth, like some fucked up breathplay every time it covers Big D up, so tight now that he’s as hard as he can be. He loves it this way, loves the way Leftie speeds up just how he likes it, gets tighter and tighter, and the way the balls work so well with him, getting all nice and tight right up til he’s spurting up and all over Derek’s jeans (that’ll show ‘em!), feeling good.

After that, Big D and Derek don’t give much thought to other dicks for a while, they get busy...until Big D meets Little S (who hates the name), but that’s a story for another time.

* * *

14.

Pairings: Laura

Warning: Peep show, Voyeurism, Masturbation, Roll Play

Picture used: 9

Life insurance could only go so far when you had eight people to bury, both land and inheritance tax to pay, an uncle who needs long-term care with no health insurance ( because why would you need it when you were a _werewolf_ ), and the only two survivors had no source of income. Plus, New York was an expensive city to live. So, Laura went looking for work, but leaving Beacon Hills before she could get her diploma limited her even further in a large town where unemployment was high.

It wasn't until she was sitting in a small, run-down coffee shop, where the six tables looked like they dated back to the sixties, that Laura saw an answer to her income dilemma, in the form of an ad in a free classified publication.

Sure working in a peep show was not Laura’s ideal way to provide for her and Derek, but the hours were on _her_ time and she was paid cash daily. It was also surprisingly easy enough to get hired on, after going through an odd “orientation” that included an “example” of what some of the performers did in their show.

It really was pathetic. The woman was classic example of a worn down stripper. She performed her dance act, on the other side of the glass, to a mindless pop song that left no illusion that the singer was talking about sex. But, it wasn't the song, or her overused choppy dance routine that Laura thought pitiful. It was the women herself. Her eyes. Red rimmed and soulless. If the woman were a wolf she'd be Omega.

But, Laura was strong. She was an Alpha. And knew the power of her sexuality.

Using her sensuality she quickly _owned_ her show. At first she did private dances. She choose music with provocative rhythms and unclothed with teasing movements. Then she added more libidinous acts to her show.

Sometimes she'd wear a high-priced looking business suit, complete with tight pinstripe skirt and thigh highs with lace peeking from the hem, fingering herself under her skirt. Times like this she'd talk aggressively about how she will make her assist lick her clit from under her desk.

Other times she'll dress in school girl plaid, and uses a sucker like she was practicing her oral skills in a bedroom mirror, so tempting and innocent. Touching herself as if she was learning the secrets of her body.

Or a lonely house wife draped in lingerie, screwing herself with a dildo, while telling her 'husband' how it felt over the phone. How much she needed it to be his cock, stretching her pussy and coming deep.

And sometimes, she’d wear nothing but a pair of colorful heals and an off- the-shoulder top, masturbating with a vibrator. Letting the onlooker insert his own desires.

No matter what roll Laura played, she was the one in control of the fantasy, granting the illusion of a voyeur looking into private moments. Giving only what she wanted to give, leaving the nameless eyes behind the glass watching with want and need. Longing but could never reach, never have anything more than the glimpses she gave.

She was in control of the sex, of the power.

She was the Alpha.

* * *

15.

Pairings: Erica/Stiles (Derek/Stiles)

Warning: A/B/O dynamics, infidelity (sort of. I think. Is it really infidelity if they have permission?)

Picture used: 1

Erica turned the key in the lock and let herself into the Alpha’s home. She was supposed to be checking up on his mate. The Omega could be a little scattered when Derek wasn’t around. 

Well, okay. No. Stiles was scattered whether Derek was around or not. Had been since they were in high school. It’s just that now, he has a mate to keep him grounded and remind him to eat. A job that fell to Erica this month while Derek was away and incommunicado for 22 hours of the day.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. Every day that she’d been here, Stiles -- or his voice anyway -- had met her at the door as he worked away in the study or kitchen. Scenting the air, she tried to determine where he was.

“Stiles?” she called out, making her way through the living room and following the strongest scent to the stairs. “Stiles, are you here?”

His scent got stronger as she walked up the stairs, and then the silence was broken by a desperate moan. Running up the stairs and down the hall, she followed the sounds and Stiles’ scent as it got heavier. A mewling whine stopped her right outside the door, and she suddenly recognized what was woven tightly through the scent she’d been following.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she breathed. “He’s in heat! God _damn it_ , Derek!”

Fumbling for her phone, she retreated to the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall, mashing the speed dial for the Alpha and praying it was in the window when he could actually answer.

“He’s in fucking _heat, Derek!_ ,” she snarled when the line connected. “What the _fuck_ am I supposed to do with that?!”

There was cursing and growls from the other end as Derek seemed to process her words. Then, “Help him,” and dead air. 

“‘Help him’,” she snarled, banging the back of her head against the wall. “God _damn it_!” 

Getting up, she walked back to the bedroom and yanked open the door. Her breath caught at the sight of Stiles spread out on the bed, two fingers thrusting deep in his ass and the other pulling at his cock as he writhed and moaned. His eyes glittered in the light from the hall when he turned his head to look at her.

“E-Erica?” he whined, reaching for her. “Erica, I -- I need --”

“Shhh,” she said, crossing the room and kneeling next to him. She wiped at the sweat on his forehead.

“So hot,” he moaned. “Where -- Where’s Der...” His words turned to a high-pitched whine as he twisted and pulled at his cock again.

“He’s not here,” she replied, her hands fluttering over Stiles’ naked torso. “He told me to help you through this.” Stiles’ moans were turning desperate and his breath came in harsh pants. Erica bit her lip. “What can I do, Stiles? What do you need?”

“I -- I --” Stiles moaned and squirmed and then grabbed Erica’s hand, pulling it down past his balls and replacing his fingers with hers. “ _Please_ , Erica!”

Erica gasped as her fingers were engulfed in heat and the noises Stiles made when she shifted so that her wrist wasn’t so bent went straight to her core. She could feel her body responding to Stiles, and her moans soon mingled with his. Before long, she was thrusting against the air, looking for friction of her own. 

“You, too,” Stiles panted, thrusting his hips and speeding the hand on his cock. “Pants -- pants off. I want --”

Erica gasped and then shook her head. Derek said help, yes; but there were some liberties she wasn’t willing to take. Pulling her panties from under her skirt with one hand, she lay down next to him and plunged her fingers deep into her own heat, pulling out of Stiles as she pushed into herself. 

Twisting her fingers, she flicked her thumb back and forth over her clit and arched her back for a better angle. Speeding her hands, she leaned over and licked a hot stripe up Stiles’ cock from root to tip, letting the taste of him settle on her tongue and spur her on.

With a growling scream, Stiles’ back arched off the bed as he covered his belly with come. Erica tightened around her fingers and wailed as she climaxed herself.

* * *

16.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Picture used: #3

He was going to kill Erica.

 _It’ll make him crazy_ , Erica’s silky voice mimicked – no, mocked – in his head. _Trust me._

Yeah, trust the she-wolf who found it amusing that her alpha was completely tail over snout for the awkward human member of their pack. He should have remembered Erica was the wolf-equivalent of the devil in lipstick and high heels.

And, really, he should have listened to his own instincts and gone with black instead of red. But Erica had insisted red was the way to go. _Go red and Stiles will go wild_ , she had said with a wink. _Guaran-damn-teed._

Derek shifted on Stiles’ bed. Guaran-damn- _nothing_. Because Stiles was standing just inside the doorway of his bedroom, _gaping at him._ Derek watched his mouth open and then close, no words spilling out. 

This couldn’t be good. Stiles was _never_ speechless. The kid talked even in his sleep.

Derek crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious and a whole lot ridiculous. Fucking Erica. 

He frowned. “So. Are you going to _say_ something?” he rumbled, his tone definitely a dare. Because Stiles fucking thrived on dares.

Stiles didn’t take his eyes off Derek as he pushed the door to his bedroom closed. “Uh...hhnnnggg,” Stiles attempted, his tongue sweeping sinfully over his bottom lip.

He was taken by surprise mid-eyeroll when Stiles launched himself at Derek, scrambling up into his lap, his mouth clamping eagerly onto Derek’s, his hands running almost reverently over the netting covering Derek’s legs.

“ _So, so hot_ ,” Stiles murmured against his lips. He rucked Derek’s t-shirt up, yanking it up and off, then pulled at the waistband of Derek’s purposefully chosen briefs. (He was a boxer-brief guy usually but Erica had said briefs would be better with the stockings and so Derek had broken down and bought a pair of briefs just for this purpose.)

“Tell me you’re gonna fuck me with those on,” Stiles said, his arousal showing clearly in the glazed and blown-wide pupils of his ridiculously beautiful amber eyes, not to mention the very obvious bulge in his jeans.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You’re kinky, Stilinski,” he teased.

Stiles huffed out a laugh. “Says the man in my bed wearing red fishnet stockings.”

Stiles shuffled off Derek’s lap and quickly shed his clothes. Then he scrambled toward the bedside table, almost face-planting into the carpet on the way, to get the lube Derek knew he kept in the drawer there. Then he was yanking Derek’s briefs down and off, flinging them carelessly toward his desk so that Derek was left with only the stockings on.

He watched as Stiles squeezed a liberal amount of lube into his palm, rubbed his palms together to warm it up a little, then slid his hands over Derek’s dick (which was now standing very much at attention) to coat it. Derek barely had a chance to catch his breath before Stiles was sinking down on him, his hole tight and hot, stretching around Derek as he basically impaled himself on Derek’s cock.

“Fucking _hell_ , Stiles.” 

Stiles flashed a cocky grin through the grimace. “Couldn’t wait,” he explained breathlessly. “Now fuck me."

Derek didn’t have to be told twice. He thrust up into Stiles, jabbing his cock into him as Stiles rocked his hips down to meet Derek’s thrusts. The pace was urgent, desperate, the build up to ecstasy quick. Derek only managed to tug at Stiles’ eager and leaking cock a few times before he found himself tumbling over the edge, biting down hard on his lip as he filled Stiles with his release. Stiles quickly tumbled after him, spurting hot and messy all over Derek’s chest.

Derek fell back onto the bed with a shudder, Stiles crashing on top of him.

“Fuck,” Stiles murmured against his neck, his lips warm and sticky. “That was hot.”

Derek let his eyes roll back into their usual place and attempted to steady his breath.

Maybe Erica knew what she was talking about, after all, he thought.

* * *


	2. Group B - With Warnings and Pairings

17.

Pairings: Stiles/rope, Stiles/Derek

Warning: bondage, dub con, orgasm denial

Picture used: #5

Stiles just wanted to try it.

Derek wasn’t due back for a few hours and wouldn’t it be a sexy surprise for him to walk in their bedroom and find Stiles trussed up naked, waiting and open, like some kind of fantasy sex slave? The thought of being tied, wrists bound, legs splayed, had Stiles half-hard in his jeans before he even made it to the hardware store.

He bought a lot of rope.

The problem was, well, it was difficult to tie yourself up. Stiles thought about texting Scott, but then realized it was a violation of the bro-code to ask your friend to help with your kinky fantasies.

Stiles needed a better plan.

It turned out that a vial of pilfered magical oil and a little belief went a long way.

Stiles’ wrists are bound, pulled taut above his head. His fingers twitch helplessly as the rope coils through the slats in the headboard causing a pleasurable stretch in his shoulders.

“That’s good,” he pants.

The rope quivers, pleased, before it slides down Stiles’ arms.

The rope feels _amazing_ trailing over his chest, brushing his nipples, tickling his navel. He’s hard already, gasping from the sensations as it twines around his thighs pulling them apart. His hips ache with the strain of being tugged so wide. He feels vulnerable and _good_. This is exactly what he wanted. His body thrums with the anticipation of Derek finding him like this, of Derek taking advantage, eating him out, sucking his dick, and fucking him until he is wrecked and begging.

“Yes,” he hisses as the rope tightens around his ankles, “right there.”

The rope ties off on the bed frame and Stiles plans to wait out Derek’s return, relax into the stretch of his muscles and the feel of the rope on his skin.

But the rope is restless, teasing along Stiles’ body, and Stiles begins to think he may have been a little overzealous with the oil.

“That’s enough,” he says, as the rope slides along his lips. “Seriously.”

But the rope dives into his mouth, pushes between his teeth, gags him, while another piece loops tight around the base of his dick and an end brushes over his exposed hole. Stiles thrashes for a moment, but the rope holds fast. He lets out a muffled moan when it pushes into him. It’s not near as thick as Derek’s cock, but it still feels incredible, rough and unslicked, pumping in and out. Stiles is hard, dripping pre-come against his stomach as the rope fucks him slowly.

That’s how Derek finds him.

Stiles manages to twist his neck to see Derek standing over him, mouth open, eyes large. A trickle of sweat slides down Stiles’ temple as the rope pushes in a little harder, sharper. Stiles arches into it despite the coils wrapped around his torso holding him down, leaving red stripes across his chest.

Derek licks his lips. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nods vigorously, the rope heavy on his tongue.

Derek’s eyes darken with lust and _that_ is the expression Stiles wanted when this idea formed in his head.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks again, the bed dipping as he climbs in.

The rope twists inside of Stiles and he moans low in answer.

Derek kneels between Stiles’ spread thighs and watches, rapt, as the rope continues its relentless thrusts, pushing harder now, deeper. Stiles thinks it knows it has an audience because it is fucking him in earnest, becoming thicker, stretching him open, unerringly hitting his prostate.

“You look amazing. Fuck! Look at you taking it.”

Stiles hears the rustle of Derek’s clothing, the _snick-snick_ of his zipper, then the rhythmic sounds of Derek jerking his dick. Derek grabs Stiles’ knee and the touch burns, feels amazing in contrast to the rope around him, in him. Stiles’ pleasure is ratcheting higher, and he whines because the rope is circled tight around his dick.

He _needs_ to come.

He hears Derek groan, feels the hot splash of Derek’s come. Stiles squirms with need, the rope still fucking him, holding him down, but finally it loosens. Stiles comes with a cry, pleasure washing through him, vision whiting out.

He comes back to Derek petting him, the rope retreating from his mouth, uncoiling from around his body.

“Next time you should wait until I’m here,” Derek says, nuzzling in.

Stiles sighs, sleep pulling at him, feeling the exhaustion of the well-fucked. “So there will be a next time?”

“Yes,” Derek answers. “Definitely.”

* * *

18.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles/Peter

Warnings: n/a

Picture used: #1 (http://i.imgur.com/ndxuMH5.jpg)

"You ready for more?" Derek asks.

"Mmmm," Stiles moans around Peter's cock.

"Was that a yes?"

"MMM," Stiles moans louder.

"I'd say that's a ‘yes’," offers Peter.

Peter leans over Stiles and pulls his nephew in for a deep kiss. Stiles can see their tongues twining and is shot through with arousal.

Derek eases himself out of Stiles and lies on the bench at the foot of the bed. Stiles grabs the big, black, double-headed dildo from the nightstand and lubes it up.

When he turns around, Peter's face is buried in Derek's ass, Derek's legs thrown over his shoulders, and Stiles can hear the slick sounds of saliva as Peter eats him out.

When Peter sits up, Stiles is struck dumb by the trail of spit that stays connected between his chin and Derek's sloppy, wet asshole. It breaks, and Stiles snaps out of it.

Peter drapes his legs over Derek's thighs so they're nearly ass to ass. Stiles kneels and feeds the dildo into Derek, who groans at the intrusion. The dildo slips in and out with ease, but Derek clenches down on it each time Stiles pulls, as if he's unwilling to let it go.

Eventually, he gets the other end in Peter, and soon, the two men are writhing on the bench together. Their fingers intertwined, they use what little leverage they have to pull themselves together on the dildo.

Stiles retrieves a condom from the nightstand, and kneels back on the floor next to them. It's hard work getting even an extra-large condom to stretch around both of their dicks, but this way no one will pop out prematurely.

After drizzling lube over the condom, he backs toward the bench. It's awkward, for a minute, reaching between his legs to line their dicks up with his loosened hole, maneuvering at a weird angle.

It burns a little, no matter how much they've played recently, toying and fingering him open. But then, when he's past the initial stretch, he relishes the feeling of utter _fullness_.

He plants his hands on Peter and Derek's thighs, using them as leverage to push himself slowly up and down, little presses at first. His own thighs burn with the exertion, so he lets himself sink down. It feels like minutes before he's seated on their laps.

Stiles lets out a drawn out "fuck" when his feet leave the floor.

"Christ, Stiles," Derek says. "I didn't think you'd manage it."

"That's our boy," says Peter.

After another moment, Stiles plants his feet and raises himself halfway off their cocks before slamming back down. The bench shakes with the force of it, and all three of them groan at the sensation. Doing all the work is exhausting, but it stops mattering when Stiles can feel the orgasm building.

 

Peter grabs his cock, stroking him fast and rough as he fucks himself on their dicks. His head falls back, Derek twitches and thrusts up into him, and that's it. Stiles' vision blurs at the edges, his whole body tenses, and he's coming in long streams over everything.

They don't let him rest there, and that's okay because his ass won't be able to handle them much longer. He kneels on the floor by the bench and tears the condom off, dives right in and licks around the heads of both of their dicks. He doesn't care about the latex taste, he just wants their come.

Peter grabs Derek's knees and starts pulling them together. Derek swivels his hips from side to side in contrast to Peter's push-pull motions. Stiles just drools all over their dicks, alternating between one, the other, both, moaning all the while.

Derek comes first, his dick rubbing against Stiles' cheek while Stiles sucks Peter's cock. Stiles switches quickly, swallowing Derek down, but he can feel the side of his face dripping with Derek's jizz.

Derek can't handle much stimulation after he comes, so he moves off the bench and joins Stiles on the floor. Together, they lick up and down Peter's cock, Stiles shoving the dildo into him with rough, uneven thrusts.

 

Stiles' mouth meets Derek's at the head of Peter's dick, and then they basically make out around it. Peter fists his hand in Derek's hair and he comes with a shout, hips coming so high off the bench, the dildo slips out of him.

They're a mess of lube and come when they pile back into bed and Stiles announces, "we're _so_ doing that again."

* * *

19.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: none

Picture used: 13, 3

"Derek!" Stiles yelled, dropping his backpack on the floor at the foot of Derek's ridiculous spiral staircase. "Come on, I just finished the last test of my high school career. Pander to me!" No response. "Deerrr-eek!"

There wasn't a place in the whole building Stiles could go that Derek wouldn't hear him. He liked yelling though, pushing the boundaries of their relationship, built on equal parts mortal danger, grudging respect and one month of frantic fucking.

"Deeer-ek!" Stiles took the stairs two at a time.

Derek was in his room, hunched on his bed, staring at an array of yellowed photographs.

"Did you hear me come in?" Stiles asked with a grin. Derek didn't look up.

"I heard."

"Whatcha looking at?"

Derek finally glanced up, expression unreadable. "My mother."

Stiles crossed to the bed slowly, but Derek didn't move to hide the pictures – women in fishnets and corsets, in different suggestive poses, singly and in groups, all framed in such a way to turn the viewer into a Voyeur. The dark haired beauty featured in all of them must be Talia Hale. Stiles swallowed. This was officially above his pay grade.

"Um," he said. "Nice pictures?"

Derek snorted. "They're making a coffee table book; a retrospective. My lawyer sent me these."

Derek had a lawyer? Somehow, it was stranger than having a mother who posed for erotica. 

"She looks good. I mean," Stiles hastily backpedaled, "fishnet stockings! Who doesn't love fishnet? Other than fish. Because they get killed—"

Derek reached out and swept up the photos.

"You said something about being pandered to?"

***

Sex with Derek was awesome. Stiles'd had more orgasms in the past month than he'd had in the eighteen years prior, and he'd jerked off _a lot_. But there were times when Derek touched his face or laced their fingers together, that Stiles got the impression that he should take this more seriously, ask about feelings or something. Like now. From his vantage point of the bed, he could see the edge of the folder Derek'd shoved the pictures into, lying on Derek's Goodwill desk. Taunting him. He should leave, but when he shifted his weight, Derek caught his wrist.

"You could stay," Derek said quietly, not meeting his eyes, red creeping into his cheeks.

They hadn't done that before. Stiles settled back into the mattress. Derek slung an arm over his waist and nuzzled his neck, and Stiles' heart lurched in his chest.

***

 

A couple days later, they were making out on Stiles' bed when Stiles unbuttoned Derek's jeans, slid his hands inside, and found—

"Oh my God! Are you wearing fishnets?"

Derek moved off him. "You said you liked them."

"Yeah, but I wasn't expecting – why are you pulling your pants back up?"

He'd barely got a glance. He reached out, and Derek slid off the bed.

"This was a bad idea—"

"Whoa, slow down! It's a great idea! Boyfriend of the year material." The label slipped out, unbidden, but one glance of Derek's flushed cheeks as he slowly pushed his jeans down, baring white underwear and red fishnet stockings convinced him it was more than welcome. Huh. Stiles drooled a little, and Derek's dick strained the fabric of his tiny undies. Derek paused, pantless.

"I'm not really good at this."

"Working for me. I'm just gonna—"

Stiles knelt at Derek's feet and ran his hands over the stockings, mouthed at Derek's cock through his underwear. Derek had really got into it, shaving his legs and everything. Because he thought Stiles would want it. And just like that, Stiles was impossibly hard. He drew Derek's cock out of his underwear and sucked him down. Too fast, gasping and choking. Derek groaned and tried to step back, but Stiles gripped both netted thighs.

"I can't believe you did this for me," he murmured, and sucked at the head of Derek's cock, tongue teasing the foreskin. Derek let out a guttural groan and fucked Stiles' mouth, losing complete control when Stiles tangled his fingers in the netting and let go, the loud snap driving Derek even further forward, hitting the back of Stiles' throat and coming in a rush. Stiles' eyes watered as he swallowed convulsively. Derek slipped from his mouth. They stared at each other for a moment, catching their breath. Derek shifted on his stocking feet.

"Thank you," Stiles said, voice scratchy. Derek smiled, the gesture strangely shy.

"Do you want to wear them?" he asked.

Hell yeah.

* * *

20.

 **Pairings:** Derek/Stiles

 **Warnings:** anal w/sex toy, intercrural sex, mild breathplay, mild D/s, mentions of knotting

 **Picture used:** 9

The package is on the porch when Stiles gets home from school, and Derek is waiting in his room.

The dildo is bright red, and Stiles is already hard as he strips and climbs onto the bed. He rolls onto his stomach and grabs the lube, coating his fingers and reaching back to slip one inside. It isn't long before he's up to three, breathing harshly through his mouth as he works himself open, hips rocking against the bed. He's hyper-aware of Derek behind him, watching as Stiles' fingers pump in and out of his hole.

"Come on," Derek says, breathless. "Use the cock, Stiles. I want to see it stretch you open."

Stiles groans, dick giving a hard twitch. He pulls his fingers free and reaches for the dildo, slicking it with lube. He presses the tip against his hole and pushes the cock past the outer rim. It burns but he doesn't stop, working it in slowly with gentle thrusts.

"Fuck, you look so good like that."

"I wish it was you," Stiles says, eyes fluttering shut.

"Next time," Derek says, and Stiles feels the bed dip. "Up."

Stiles scrambles onto his hands and knees and Derek reaches for Stiles' dick with one hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around the base, and grabs the end of the dildo with the other. That's all the warning there is before he starts fucking Stiles with it, hard and fast.

"Fu – _uck_ ," Stiles chokes out, dick giving a hard twitch in Derek's grip.

"Yeah," Derek breathes. "Look at you. You fucking love this."

Stiles can't answer, mouth parted on a long, silent gasp, Derek continuously fucking the cock into him. He's shaking, dick painfully hard, and as soon as he's able to catch his breath he starts making embarrassing high-pitched noises, his hands twisting so hard in his sheets he thinks he hears them rip.

Derek groans and the dildo suddenly stops moving, shoved deep. Stiles wants to complain but all of his words seem to have disappeared. Derek lets go of his dick, making Stiles whimper, and moves more fully behind him.

"Legs together," Derek says, tapping the outside of Stiles' thighs. He reaches for the discarded bottle of lube as Stiles obeys, and then straddles Stiles' legs and grips his hips, pushing his slick dick between Stiles' thighs.

Stiles whines, and Derek slides one hand up Stiles' stomach to his chest, pulling him up so that they're pressed together. Stiles groans and drops his head back against Derek's shoulder – and Derek's hand continues sliding up, until it's wrapped lightly around Stiles' throat.

"Is this okay?" 

Stiles nods frantically and Derek tightens his grip until Stiles' breath is coming short and shallow. There are sharp pricks against his skin where Derek's claws are, and Stiles digs his fingers into Derek's thighs.

Derek starts snapping his hips, his dick slip-sliding between Stiles' thighs, dragging along his balls and hitting the base of Stiles' cock. There's a hot buzzing under Stiles' skin, his eyes half-closed and lips parted as he drags in sharp, quick breaths against the pressure on his throat.

"So beautiful," Derek murmurs. "I'm going to fuck you properly next time, fill you with my come. Maybe one day you'll let me knot you –"

As soon as the words leave Derek's mouth Stiles is done for, his untouched dick throbbing and pulsing as he comes everywhere. Derek growls, hand disappearing from Stiles' throat as he moves it to the back of his neck and shoves him face down into the bed. He pulls the dildo out of Stiles' ass and then presses the tip of his dick to his open hole, coming against it. Hot liquid splashes onto Stiles, some of it sliding down over his balls, and Stiles whimpers.

Derek groans, rubbing his dick through the mess and dipping two fingers into Stiles' hole, pushing more come inside. Finally he shifts away, collapsing onto the bed beside Stiles and staring at him through lidded eyes. Stiles lets himself tip over, sprawling half on Derek and half on the bed.

"Will you really knot me?" Stiles asks, and fuck, his voice sounds _wrecked_.

Derek smiles, slow and wicked, and pulls him into a hard kiss. Stiles whimpers, opening his mouth for Derek's tongue, and has almost forgotten his question when Derek pulls back and nips at his bottom lip.

"I will. Soon."

Stiles shudders, and hopes he won't have to wait too long.

* * *

21.

 **Pairings:** Allison/Scott (hints of Allison/Chris fantasy)

 **Warning:** hints of incesty thoughts, semi-public sex

 **Picture used:** 10

Allison looked over the banister into the living room below and her belly tingled with nerves.

“What are you doing?” Scott tugged at her hand. His harsh whisper echoing in the high ceilings. “Your dad’s right there.”

Allison kissed him, ducking her head to draw attention from her sly grin. “It’ll be fine.” She reached for his belt.

“Shit.”

“He’s been drinking.” Bitterness slipped into her tone and she smiled wider to compensate. “You’ll hear him if he wakes.”

When her hand closed around his dick, Scott’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I might not,” he said. It came out breathy, like he wasn’t sure if he should be fighting this harder.

Before he could gather a better resolve, she’d turned around and with a quick tug, her skirt and panties slipped to the floor. She leaned over the banister, presenting her bare ass. Scott’s helpless moan sent a wicked thrill deep into her belly.

Directly below them, her father snored softly. The newspaper he’d been reading fallen forgotten onto his lap. The glass beside him was empty; it usually was these days, except for the very short moments when it had just been re-filled. 

Scott’s fingers found her wet. Her breath caught as he pushed in three of them. He knew she liked the stretch, that she was already ready for it.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” The crinkle of condom package followed the words; she knew Scott had already been convinced.

“It’ll be fine.”

Her dad would never even notice. He didn’t notice anything these days -- rarely even looked her in eye. Losing his wife, his father, his sister in the span of a few months had broken him. Allison understood his pain, shared it, but she hated it fiercely. She hated herself for competing with _grief_ for her father’s attention.

She clutched as the banister beneath her fingers until the ache of it brought her back.

 

Behind her, Scott gripped her hips and she felt the tip of his latex-covered cock graze her clit. “Ready?”

She stared down at her father, as oblivious in sleep as he was awake. She didn’t even try to keep her ‘yes’ quiet.

Scott wasted no time sliding inside her, setting a familiar pace.

Chris shifted his position and the newspaper on his lap fell away. His subconscious could probably hear them, she thought. Her eyes traced out the folds in his crotch, trying to spot a bulge. She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut in embarrassment at that thought. It’s not as if she wanted--

It was his _attention_ she was looking for. His forgiveness. Some of that unconditional love he’d paid lip-service to in the first few days after Gerard’s death. She’d cried on his shoulder and he’d held her so tightly she could barely breathe -- that was before the panic of losing her had cooled to indifference.

The indifference was _toxic_.

While Scott found his rhythm, Allison imagined Chris waking up to find her being fucked by a werewolf fifteen feet from him. She’d have his undivided attention then. He’d be up off the couch, his hand on a gun before Scott could even pull out. Scott was fast enough, he’d disappear out a window before her dad could get a clear shot. She’d be left leaning on the banister, her ass on display as he climbed the steps to yell at her. She had to stop her train of thought right there.

Scott was getting frantic, bruising her hips with every thrust. As he slammed into her, the acoustics of the stairwell amplified the filthy sounds of slapping flesh. His hand left her hip and found her clit, rubbing it off with brutal pressure -- the kind she liked lately. The next thrust slammed her against the banister and it creaked ominously.

“Harder,” she said, her focus still below.

Scott panted against her back, trying to keep pace while working her clit.

Her dad’s hand twitched.

She trembled, her arms giving out as her orgasm rippled through her body. She was riding the last waves of it when Scott pressed deep, his hips jerky and out of rhythm.

He held her, nuzzling her shoulder before pulling out.

She should get dressed, kiss Scott goodnight, but she was frozen, her hand white-knuckled on the banister. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the peaceful, sleeping face of her father who still hadn’t looked at her.

* * *

22.

Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Warning: bondage

Picture used: #5

Derek sets his groceries down and peers at the writhing mess on his living room floor. 

“Okay,” he says eventually, “I give up. Some type of performance art?”

“You’re evil,” Stiles groans from the floor. 

Derek shrugs. “Just trying to get some context here.”

“The _context_ is that this was supposed to be a sexy surprise, but something went… awry.”

“So I’d guessed.”

“And there weren’t any scissors in the bedroom, so I was attempting to get to the kitchen.”

Apparently, Stiles has been awkwardly rolling across the floor in his quest. He’s wearing nothing but tight black briefs, but there are rope burns across his chest from what had probably once been a ladder of lovely, intricate knots. However, the main problem seems to be that Stiles has managed to securely fasten his ankles not only together, but also to his left wrist… behind his back, leaving only his right arm free. But the ropes aren’t constricting Stiles’ breathing or cutting off his circulation, so Derek doesn’t need to do anything _just_ yet.

“But now that you’re here,” Stiles says brightly, “you can just Wolverine me right out of this.”

Derek sighs and reaches down to scoop Stiles off the floor. He has to be more careful than usual, but it’s still easy enough to sling Stiles over his shoulder and take him back to the bedroom.

By the time Derek has laid Stiles out on the bed, Stiles’ briefs are even tighter, and Derek can see the clear outline of his growing erection. Derek kneels between Stiles’ spread thighs and rubs him through the fabric, cupping and squeezing until Stiles is writhing again. “So what was the original idea here?”

“J-Japanese rope bondage,” Stiles gasps. “It’s hot.” He nods at a spread of computer printouts showing naked men and women bound in elaborately tied ropes. Derek also finds a printout of do-it-yourself instructions, and he only has to read the first three steps to be amazed that Stiles got as far as he did. 

“Are you hurt?” Derek asks.

Stiles sighs. “Only my dignity. And my dick, so cut me out of this and kiss it all better.”

Chuckling, Derek shifts up the bed to shove a pillow under Stiles’ head and neck. “I don’t know. You’ve wrapped yourself up so nicely for me.”

“Don’t tease,” Stiles whines as Derek slowly drags a hand down Stiles’ chest.

The tip of Stiles’ cock is peeking out of the waistband now, and Derek fits his mouth over it and sucks lightly. “If you really want me to cut you out, I will,” Derek says, letting his breath ghost over the wet head of Stiles’ dick. He sucks again, sweeping his tongue over the slit to make Stiles buck beneath him. 

Stiles groans, obviously caught between his pride and his libido. “It’ll take too long. Keep going.”

Actually, with Derek’s claws, it would take a matter of seconds, but there’s a reason Stiles was trying to tie himself up in the first place, so Derek tugs Stiles’ briefs down just enough to free his cock and balls.

And then he leans up over Stiles’ chest again, tucking Stiles’ right arm underneath his body. Stiles doesn’t resist, just whimpers softly as Derek kisses over each of the rope burns. By sheer luck, one loop of rope has managed to stay tight over Stiles’ nipples, and Derek tugs at it, getting Stiles to arch up into the scratching pressure.

By the time Derek has kissed his way back down, Stiles’ cock is flushed an angry red, rock hard and begging for attention. So Derek goes for Stiles’ balls first, sucking each one into his mouth in turn until Stiles is practically sobbing. When Derek returns his attention to Stiles’ cock, it doesn’t take much, just the warm, wet slide of Derek’s tongue as he bobs his head. Soon, Stiles is crying out, Derek’s hands holding him steady as Derek swallows him down.

As soon as Stiles collapses back to the bed, Derek’s claws are out and he’s cutting neatly through the ropes. Once Stiles is free, Derek helps him stretch out on the bed. “I am totally gonna reciprocate,” Stiles slurs, “as soon as I can feel anything below my neck.”

“Idiot,” Derek says fondly, gently moving Stiles’ major joints to make sure nothing’s strained. When he’s done, he crawls up to kiss Stiles, soothing his chapped, bitten lips. “If you wanted to be tied up, all you had to do was ask.”

* * *

23.

Pairings: Stiles/OMC

Warning: none

Picture used: 10

His name is Evan. Or maybe it's Aaron. Might be Owen. But his name isn't the point. The _point_ is his hands are huge and his body is heavy and his mouth is working a massive bruise into Stiles' neck, just over the pulse. With the throbbing music drowning out the thoughts in Stiles' head, he's getting exactly what he needs.

Only, he doesn't need it in the middle of the dance floor in a bar three towns over.

Stiles licks his lips in an attempt to say something, but his mouth is dry and the wall feels really good at his back, holding him up where Evan-Aaron-Owen (definitely Evan. Probably.) keeps pushing at him.

It's kind of weird, how it's like a fight, Stiles' fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sweat-damp tank top Evan's wearing, fingertips skidding over hot skin. Evan has Stiles' hips pinned to the wall, clinging heavy enough to make Stiles' knees wobble, but all Stiles wants to do is lean into it. To get some pressure on his dick either with Evan's leg or hand or body. It doesn't matter, Stiles just _needs_.

"Gotta get outta here," Stiles slurs, tilting his head to the side, giving Evan room to find a new spot, to lick along the tendon and bite at the hinge of Stiles' jaw. His hands squeeze Stiles' hips once.

"Got a place," Evan says, his voice dark and low. "Not far."

Stiles nips at Evan's mouth, sharp and fast, then licks his lips again to find a hint of copper there. "What are you waiting for?"

: : :

The house isn't huge, but it has a certain charm with its attic back lit by the gibbous moon. Stiles likes how it's in the middle of nowhere; no one to hear him scream.

(A voice in his head tells him that's not a good thing, but that voice is accompanied by Very Angry Eyebrows, so Stiles is going to ignore it for awhile yet.)

For as much as they didn't touch in the car, Evan is on Stiles' now, hands slipping underneath Stiles' t-shirt, pushing it up and up until it's off, dropped to the floor by his feet. The cool air feels good on his overheated skin, until Evan's hands are back, palming Stiles' sides, teasing his nipples, fingernails dragging over his ribs. It makes Stiles' skin feel too tight and he writhes, hands pushing at Evan's shoulders.

"Bed?" Stiles pants in between long, drugging kisses. His mouth is wet and raw, and there's a thigh between his legs for him to grind against. _Finally_.

"Upstairs." Evan pulls Stiles close, hands fumbling at Stiles' zipper, and turns them. Stiles has to blink to make the stairs come into focus, then moans as a hand wraps around his dick, warm through thin cotton, and he looks down to find his jeans in a puddle at his feet.

"You plan on losing any clothes tonight?" Stiles asks from over his shoulder, the arch of his brow faltering when Evan's thumb drags a circle around Stiles' slit. "Keep doing that," Stiles stutters, "and we'll never make it up the stairs."

Evan chuckles, nudging Stiles forward. "Who says I want to?"

The trip up is difficult, with Evan biting bruises into Stiles' neck and shoulders, his hands on Stiles' chest, tweaking Stiles' nipples. At this point, Stiles is so turned on he can't see straight, so of course he stumbles at the top, catching himself on the wall before he faceplants on the floor. Evan's so close, he missteps, too, stopping his fall with a crushing grip on Stiles' hips, his body draped all along Stiles' back.

In this position, Stiles can feel Evan's dick through his jeans, hot and hard, nestled against Stiles' ass. Stiles moans and rocks into it, head tilted back until he can nip at Evan's chin. He's rewarded with another thrust, this one a little rougher. Stiles' eyes roll into the back of his head.

"Oh my _god_ ," he says, the words thick and rough. "You gotta-- I can't--" his hips roll, restless, and he's reaching back to grab anything he can; Evan's hair or neck, the shirt he's wearing.

Evan's hand slips from Stiles' hip to his stomach and then into his boxer briefs. His grip is firm and his voice sly as he says, "Let's take the edge off, yeah?"

Stiles doesn't argue.

* * *

24.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: None

Picture used: 11

The sound of the shower door opening and the blast of frigid air made Stiles spin around, wiping shampoo from his eyes. " _Hey_ ," he said as Derek stepped into the shower with him, naked and still rumpled from sleep. "I've got to be on campus in twenty. Wait your turn."

Derek blinked at him, then shut the door and crowded into Stiles's space, reaching for the soap behind him. "It's cold," he grumbled.

"You're like a walking space-heater." Stiles elbowed him out of the spray so he could rinse the shampoo from his hair. "Suck it up."

Derek was looking at him with the distant, intent sort of expression that meant he wasn't listening to a word Stiles said. He stared at Stiles's chest, then drew his gaze down, following the trail of bubbles as they coursed over him.

"Hey." Stiles was not getting hard, damn it, he was _not_. He had a lecture to get to, and his class was halfway across campus. "Stop looking at me like that. If you're not going to behave, I'm going to kick you out and make you shiver until I'm done."

Derek lifted his gaze to Stiles's slowly. "Look at you like what?"

"Oh my God, you _know_ what. Like you'd eat me with a spoon if only you knew where to start."

The light that sparked in Derek's eyes was not reassuring in the least. Neither was his slow grin, which seemed to say that Stiles had just given him the best idea ever.

"Oh God," Stiles moaned. "No. _No._ Derek—"

Derek dropped to his knees, his hands going to Stiles's hips. The water poured onto him, but he just blinked it out of his eyes and looked up at Stiles with that same hungry expression.

"Christ." Somehow, Stiles's hands had found their way into Derek's hair, cupping his skull. "Oh my God, Professor Avery's going to kill me."

Derek pulled Stiles forward until the hot water pounded his back. He leaned forward and ghosted his breath across Stiles's cock, which was, in fact, growing hard very rapidly, no matter what Stiles might have told himself. "Yes?" Derek asked, smiling slyly as he glanced up. The picture he made like that was nothing short of obscene. Obscene and completely unfair.

"You're a terrible influence," Stiles gasped. "A _terrible_ influence. I'm going to be the only student ever to fail because his boyfriend gave him too many blowjobs."

Derek sat on his haunches, putting distance between them. Stiles choked off a desperate sound and grabbed onto Derek's hair again, pulled him back in. "I didn't say _stop_."

Derek's grin flashed, pure victory, an instant before he leaned in and sucked Stiles's cock into his mouth. He was quick, relentless, his cheeks hollowing out every time he drew back. Stiles's head swam and he threw a hand out to brace against the wall. He was going to fall. He was going to fall and crack his head open on the tile and _die_ and some poor coroner was going to have to explain to his father that his only son had suffered death by blowjob. Scott would probably make sure it was engraved on his tombstone, because Scott's sense of humor was completely terrible.

Derek laughed, his breath warm around Stiles's heated flesh, and it was only then that Stiles realized he'd said all of that out loud. "You're not going to die," Derek said, and licked a long stripe up his cock. "I'd catch you."

Stiles lasted maybe another thirty seconds before he came hard, pouring himself down Derek's throat. Derek licked him clean thoroughly before he rose to his feet, shut the water off, and ushered Stiles out of the shower and into a towel. "Fifteen minutes left," he said as he glanced at Stiles's watch on the counter. "You can make it."

Stiles just stood there and stared at him dumbly. "But you didn't even get off."

Derek's grin was pure sin. He walked across the room naked and dripping, sprawled out on his back on the bed so that he was on full display. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

Stiles's jaw dropped. He gaped at Derek, unmoving.

Derek glanced at the bedside clock. "Fourteen minutes. Shouldn't you be putting clothes on?"

Stiles got an absence in Professor Avery's class that day. It was a testament to his genius that he managed not to fail any classes at all that semester.

* * *

25.

Pairings: Kate/Derek

Warning:underage, dubcon, violence

Picture used: 9

Kate thinks about each step, each movement. This seduction must be perfect. He’s half in love with her already, but that’s not enough.

She needs his heart in her palm.

Metaphorically, of course.

She dresses with care. A teal shirt over the skinniest of jeans, and heels to match her shirt. Her hair is perfectly coiffed and curled. Her nails are a brilliant shade of red and her lips are the same. A slash of color across her face.

There’s the bell and her cue. She ushers him into her apartment, dropping his backpack to floor with a hidden moue of distaste. It’s intoxicating how young he is, the youth and vitality beneath his skin, but the physical representation of the social approbation they would suffer should their relationship become public is worrying. Easy enough to dispose of the feeling by hiding the bag behind the arm of the couch.

Laughing she pulls him to the bedroom. She doesn’t need to have details about her school day, she needs to know about his family. And a man’s tongue is always loosened after orgasm. She’s an expert in this after all.

She doesn’t see why work shouldn’t involve a bit of fun. Her brother could never understand. Chris, the golden boy, so firmly entrenched in his beliefs of righteousness. How could he understand that the ends always, always justifies the means? They’re fighting monsters, the things that go bump in the night. Does he think he himself can avoid becoming monstrous? There’s blood on their hands and gun oil under her nails and the taste of accelerant in her mouth. Ah, but such thoughts are for another day.

The full moon is coming. She’ll be ready.

For tonight, though she pushes him onto her bed gently. She laughs with her head thrown back. Slyly, she watches through half-closed eyes at the way he swallows convulsively at the sight of her golden throat.

Attentively, he watches as she swings one leg up onto the bed, teasingly revealing the fact that she’s bare underneath as she unzips the fly of her jeans torturously slowly. She bends fairly in half to wriggle out of them, presenting a portrait of grace and flexibility. But her gaze is demure, for all of her antics. That’s half the fun after all, the face of an angel and the body of a. well.

She reclines back into the chair cunningly positioned to show off every inch of skin to the boy in the bed. She brings one heel up onto the chair’s arm and she’s bared to his gaze. His arms tremble with the effort of not moving off the bedspread, whether to touch her or himself, she doesn’t know.

Her fingers splay her lips daringly, one finger glistening with how wet she is for him. He growls from the bed, nostrils flared to catch every scent of her arousal. With her other hand, she brings the vibrator to play across the skin of her inner thigh, moving ever closer to her clitoris.

This is for her, this pleasure, made exponentially better by the eyes she can feel adding weight to her every move.

Her head lolls as the vibrations play their part across her clit. Even in the throes of pure sensation, nerves singing beneath her skin, she is ever attentive to his needs. The moans from the back of her throat, the wet sounds between her thighs, each brings him higher.

When she finally, rises, heels planted firmly into the plush carpeting, to make her way to the bed, he will be satiated, warm and content. HIs underwear is sticky with the proof of his own orgasm. She plays with the hem of his pants and he smiles at her sleepily. There it is.

Look at her mastery, look at how she’s subdued the beast. Another week will bring to them all what they’re due.

Here is her palm, here is his heart, how lightly it weighs.

How easy it will be to crush it beneath her heels.

* * *

26.

Pairings: Lydia (/Jackson, /Stiles)

Warning: bondage

Picture used: #5

 

Bight. Bowline. Double wrap. Closure.

***

"You're a confident woman, like your mother," her father says. He's not looking at her, as usual, but she can taste the bitterness.

"You're a leader," her mother says, proud. "I could see it in you the day you were born."

That's what everyone else seems to think as well. No one is surprised by the way Lydia dresses, in dominatrix heels and red lipstick. They're so unsurprised by it that no one actually asks how she identifies.

***

Loop. Pull it through.

Loop. Pull it through.

Loop.

***

Jackson is nice to pin down. There is an exquisite vulnerability in the noises he makes under her touch, but she doesn't thrill in it as the others do. She can see it in their eyes as they watch: the brightness, the eagerness, the sharp, toothy edge of sadism.

It's unsurprising to them that she likes controlling things. Yet somehow, only she is unsurprised by the revelation that really, all she truly craves control over is herself.

***

Lark's head.

Pull taut.

Connection.

***

Rope is like physics. Engineering. Lydia has always been one for the theoretical side of things, but there is something fantastic in the applied exercise of recreating a set of principles in the real world. If her calculations are correct, and her body can stand the stress, then she should be able to make _these_ shapes. She should be able to fly.

It always starts slow, with easy knots around her ankles and a harness around hips or chest. She likes the way hemp fibers get in under her glass-smooth fingernails. She likes the bite of rope into her hips, like a man's rough grip.

Her hands stay free.

***

Afterwards, sometimes, she lies in puddles of rope and touches herself.

"Uh, did you want me to leave?" Stiles asks. He'd been her spotter today; he'd been so quiet that she'd almost forgotten he was there. Lydia considers the question, not bothering to stop the motion of her fingers in her underwear, circling her clit.

"You can keep watching if you want," she decides, tilting her knee a bit so he can see better. Her panties are pretty much see-through, even when they're not soaking wet. "Spot me."

She smirks at the shaky bob of his Adam's apple, then closes her eyes.

She comes three times, for his benefit.

***

Rigging at parties is a performance art. Lydia delights in the eyes on her skin as she hoists herself up, delights in the play of whispers as her feet tilt heavenward and her head swings down, hair spilling everywhere. Most of all, she delights in crushing gravity.

Someone saunters near, his voice oily slick. "Need a hand getting down, pretty thing?"

Jackson and Stiles are on the man before she has time to bare her teeth.

"Thanks," she says when they return. Her voice is hoarse and throaty; she's still upside down.

Stiles nods. Jackson shrugs.

Even after she gets back upright, feet on the ground, she feels unsteady.

"Can I," she starts to ask.

They don't bother to let her finish, just sandwich her between them in a coordinated embrace. Bodies are another kind of bondage, Lydia finds. They hold her suspended, two polarized ends that don't quite want to touch, but are drawn together nonetheless. Curled between them, she feels safe.

"Thanks," she says, muffled in Jackson's chest. She feels the warmth of two sighs against her hair, then the gentle press of two kisses in turn.

***

Half-hitch.

Half-hitch.

Closure.

* * *

27.

Pairings:Lydia/Allison/Peter

Warning: Language, sexy girl times, voyeurism, masturbation

Picture used: 13

Lydia sat on the edge of the bed, one leg extended out as her hand moved along the soft silky stockings. They were new and matched her jacquard print black corset and she felt so decadently beautiful as she waited for one of her best friends. It was Allison day this time; they each had a day, some as scheduled, some as the whims or mood struck. She smiled as she smoothed back her hair, pulled up into a loose bun, a few tendrils framing her face as Allison came into her room.

"You looked beautiful."

"So do you," Allison replied as she walked slowly to the bed, standing next to Lydia's desk. She was dressed only in her own black stockings and nothing else. She bent over slightly and looked back at Lydia with a slow seductive smile. "I've been waiting for this. I'm all ready for you," she said as her hand moved over the smooth skin of her ass, the flattened top of the plug slightly visible as it was deep inside of her, stretching her for what was to come.

"You are aren't you," came the reply as Lydia reached for the harness and slipped into it easy enough, straps wrapping around her tiny hips, the realistic though fake phallus jutting from it in front of her. It was very slick, her hand stroking over the length as she watched Allison.

She teased her and let her fingers move around it, smoothing over Allison's back before loosening it and slipping it from her, gasping as she moaned.

"Oh god Lydia please," she begged. Allison pushed her ass up further, wanting more,wanting release.

Lydia didn't make her wait too long either. She moved behind her and teased her entrance for a little bit before pushing the dildo slow and deep inside if the other girl.

 

She loved watching her react but she wasn't the only one. Hidden behind the slightly open bedroom down there stood another, watching the two girls, the need and hunger evident on his features. Peter’s hand was already in his pants, stroking himself faster, in rhythm to Lydia’s hips. He groaned as Allison did and it was like he was there with them, but like this was even more deliciously enticing.

Lydia kept moving, harder, deeper, faster and leaned over Allison’s back and slipped her hand around her, cupping her breast. Fingers moved over the soft skin; nails teased her nipples and with every action Allison moaned louder, begged for Lydia to fuck her more. Something that she was very happy to do. "It feels good doesn't it? You like how it feels how it feels you up."

"Yes!" Allison cried out as she rest on her forearms, shaking the harder that Lydia thrust and the closer that she was getting. Wearing the plug for hours had left her k a state of arousal for far too long and if wouldn't be too much longer.

Peter groaned as the girls continued. He wouldn't last too much longer but then he never really did when he watched like this. He should stop; he so should. But he didn't and Peter also didn't have problem with that either. A hand pressed hard against the door jam and the wolf was careful not to push it open any further.

Both girls were breathing hard and it was mixed with a harmony of moans and groans. Lydia wanted them to come together and she was focused on pushing Allison over the edge finally.

"Fuck! Fuck... that's it... I can't... I'm coming. Oh God Lydia... !". Allison cried out as she can and Lydia's hips didn't stop moving. But along with Allison she heard something else and she smirked as she looked toward the door.

WIth a few more thrusts Lydia slowed as Allison’s release subsided and she leaned over her, nuzzling her back and smiled again. “We have company,” she said, not at all trying to whisper.

Allison smiled and glanced back at her. “I know. I passed him when I came into the room and conveniently left the door ajar,” she smirked and the two girls grinned.

Slowly the door opened and there stood Peter, jeans undone and low on his hips, licking his fingers sinfully slow and looked a the two of them. “I heard there was a party....” he said and smirked a little himself.

* * *

28.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles, Established Laura/Stiles

Warning: Infidelity, Human!AU

Picture used: 1

Laura hardly pauses long enough to say, “Oh right. Derek, Stiles.”

Derek turns and freezes. Stiles is—There’s nothing about him that Derek doesn’t want to put his mouth on. “Hey,” he says, croaky, weak. He clears his throat, ears burning red. “How do you know Laura?”

Laura rolls her eyes. “He’s only the boyfriend I’ve been talking to you about for the last month.”

Derek’s stomach drops. _Boyfriend?_

Stiles grins and his mouth is wide, mobile. “Whoa, you’ve been talking behind my back. Not sure how I feel about that.”

Laura’s answering grin is shark-like. “I’d feel _very_ unsafe.”

“Well now I do,” he says uneasily but he’s still grinning and he’s _painfully_ attractive.

Derek says around the ache of his heart trying to squeeze itself into a raisin, “It was nice meeting you, Stiles.”

* * *

He tries to avoid Stiles. Only he’s one of those people you want to be around _all the time_. He’s funny and kind and his nose wrinkles when he laughs and Derek is falling stupidly in love with him.

Laura corners him and says, “Do you like him? Tell me you like him.”

 _I do. Too much_. “I like him.”

Laura frowns. “Just not for me?”

“I didn’t say that.” _But it’s true_.

* * *

Stiles finds him, traps him, when they’re both home for Christmas break. “Derek. Hey.” He’s been drinking. “So. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Derek can’t look at him. He’s too _much_. “I haven’t.”

Stiles smiles but it looks forced. “You did literally turn around and walk the other way when you saw me coming.” Derek cringes. “Which sucks because I thought we were getting along. Laura was pretty amazed by it. She said you don't open up to many people.” Derek flinches harder at the mention of Laura. Stiles leans into his space, concern in every line of his face. "Derek?"

“You should go,” Derek says gruffly. Stiles slides a warm hand over his shoulder and Derek wants to cry. He presses his cheek to the buzz of Stiles’s hair, turns so his lips are skimming it and says helplessly, “Stiles, you have to go. I want things I—”

He sees when the penny drops for Stiles, behind the wideness of his eyes and the heat of his gaze and he wants this too. Somehow that only makes things worse.

* * *

Derek hears the creak of his door and he can see Stiles carefully closing it behind him from the hall light.

He sits up, heart pounding. “Stiles? What are you—”

Derek can barely make out his face in the illumination from his alarm clock. It paints his skin an otherworldly blue, like he’s looking at him underwater. He kneels on Derek’s bed, his knee resting by his hip and he says desperately, “I won’t touch you. I’ll just—” Stiles licks his lips, tone dripping with disbelief, “You’re hard.”

Derek’s heart is beating wildly and he puts his hand on Stiles’s knee to stop him getting any further. “Don’t. She’s my sister. Stiles—”

Stiles shakes his head, promises, “I won’t touch you. I just want to see.” He pulls his shirt off over his head, unbuttons his jeans. He’s not wearing anything underneath. “I won’t touch you,” and it’s like a mantra. “ _Please_ ,” he says.

Derek pulls down the covers, pushes down his boxers, all the while staring up at Stiles as Stiles drinks him in with a whimper. Stiles climbs on top of him, straddles him, leans back. Derek watches him slide two fingers inside himself while his cock throbs to replace them.

Stiles babbles while he fucks himself, like he can’t control himself. “I think about it all the time. You inside me, fucking me.” His thighs rest over Derek’s and Derek can feel the heat of him, the push-pull of his body as he finger fucks himself. He gasps, “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

And it’s too much. Derek is shaking with the effort of staying still and he grabs Stiles’s thighs _hard_ and grits out while tears well in his eyes, “You have to go.”

Stiles bites his lip and pleads, “Derek, I won’t—”

Derek grabs him by the back of his neck, pulls him forward and kisses him like he never means to stop. “I will,” he says, voice wrecked with emotion. “I _will_.”

Stiles breaks up with Laura. He transfers from Berkeley. He doesn't speak to Derek again. No matter how many times Derek begs him to.

* * *

29.

Pairings: Boyd/Erica

Warning: none

Picture used: 11

 

Erica returns on a Tuesday.

Boyd remembers because they'd had a chemistry test that morning and Stiles had yet to stop complaining about Harris.

One minute they’re running drills in the woods on the Preserve, and the next, Erica’s sauntering through the trees like she hasn’t been gone for ages. Like she’s still a part of their pack. Like she hadn’t fucking _abandoned_ them.

Someone starts talking, but Boyd doesn’t hear a word over the sudden crushing weight bearing down on him. Something twists in his gut, curls up his spine, running hot and cold at the same time, and he can’t see, can’t think, can’t _breathe_. His shoulders feel heavy, muscles taut, and all he can do is stare.

He doesn't stick around to hear her explanation.

It’s been two years.

*****

It turns out that Erica voluntarily stayed with the Alpha pack for months, learning everything she could before they cut her loose. Then she’d taken up residence with the Anders pack south of Beacon Hills.

She wasn’t a prisoner, hadn’t been forced to stay away, but not once had she made contact with anyone. Boyd still remembers being tortured, then inexplicably being offered the chance to leave. He also remembers Erica standing with the Alpha pack, watching him retreat, silent and unaffected.

As far as Boyd’s concerned, she made her choice years ago.

*****

It takes over a month for the others to start letting her back into the fold. Boyd knows that Derek doesn’t trust her, not yet, but he wants to. She’s learned a lot while she’s been gone. So have they. But unfortunately Erica has the upper hand. They need her.

Occasionally he catches Erica looking at him, gaze soft and sad, but she doesn’t approach him. Hasn’t yet. He’s still not ready.

*****

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” Erica says as they crouch down in the bushes a few hundred yards from where trolls have taken up residence in an abandoned farmhouse.

Boyd knows she’s right, but he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of admitting to anything. Instead, he steels himself for the impending fight, gaze hardening as he stares out across the open field, listening for Derek’s signal.

“I’m sorry.”

Her heartbeat remains steady.

He doesn’t say anything, but he knows.

*****

Sometimes it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Sometimes it feels like everything has.

Sometimes Boyd even smiles when Erica and Stiles gang up on Derek, or she calls Scott and Isaac out on their blatant flirting. But the sting of betrayal runs deep. He doesn’t know how to forgive, but more importantly, how to trust again.

Sometimes he finds himself wanting to, though. Maybe it’s a start.

*****

Everything’s going well with the witch coven, until it suddenly isn’t.

The spell is expected, but the explosion isn’t. Erica and Stiles are in the crossfire, but she doesn’t even hesitate to protect him from the blast. Scott and Derek scream for Stiles, but Erica is all Boyd can see, heart stuttering in his chest. He could’ve lost her for real this time.

He rushes for her, without even thinking, pulls her into his arms. She’s covered in blood, warm and sticky against his chest, but he doesn’t care. Boyd feels Erica curl around him, into him, and he tightens his grip.

*****

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a common theme these days, though Boyd thinks that maybe _he’s_ the one who should be apologizing.

He presses a kiss against her lips, her chin, trails kisses down her shoulder and chest, relishing in the way her breath catches in her throat, the way her heartbeat speeds up as he moves lower.

“I should be the one apologizing to you,” he says, quiet, but he knows she hears him.

“No. I left you. You had every right.”

Boyd shakes his head. “I could’ve given you a chance, listened to what you had to say first.”

He sinks to his knees, hands running up and down her thighs appreciatively. She lets out a low hum, contented, spreading her legs as wide as a shower stall will allow, and digging her nails into Boyd’s scalp as he mouths at her clit.

“It’s...okay. You know-- _oh fuck, yes_ \--now.”

The taste of her arousal is intoxicating, something he hasn’t realized he’s missed until this very moment. Erica moans her encouragement as Boyd slips two fingers inside of her.

They’ve wasted so much time. _He’s_ wasted so much time. But not any more.

* * *

30.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warnings: Descriptions of gender dysphoria and transphobia.

“What’s wrong, Gizheurann?” Mom asked when she found you sobbing beneath the apple tree, your face redder than the ripening fruit. The name made you cry harder.

Her eyes pleaded with you. Since you’d started school last year, she’d grown wan. Every morning, you tried to stay home. Crying. Faking stomach aches. Refusing to get out of bed. It didn’t work. They took you to doctors, but you weren’t sick. You were _wrong. Nobody could fix that._

Sometimes you wonder if she wore her heart out worrying for you. If you’d been normal, would it still be beating?

Mom pulled you into her lap, and the secrets fell from your lips, crashing and breaking against the tear-stained fabric of her blouse. The boys wouldn’t play with you at recess. They laughed when you wanted to be Batman. The girls thought you were weird. All the girls were supposed to wear skirts to the concert next week, but you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t! You’d rather die.

When you lifted your head, she was crying too. Somehow, that helped. You’d been afraid she might say you were silly, there was nothing wrong. Maybe her tears gave you the courage to ask, in a small voice, “Was I cursed?”

She taught you charms to keep monsters away, to bring good luck. You both knew curses were serious. She looked up at the apples overhead.

“ _Zaichik_ ,” she said at last, “I think maybe you were.”

Next week, Dad drives you to a different school. Your new teacher introduces you as Stiles. You smile, run a hand through your freshly-buzzed hair. You sit next to a boy named Scott.

Scott lets you be Batman, at least until he gets the superpowers, which is ironic, since Batman has none. But Scott is cursed, too, so you’ll cut him some slack.

* * *

You’ve claimed a debilitating fear of water since puberty, so instead of splashing in the pool with your friends, you’re trudging through the woods after Derek, who doesn’t scare you anymore, but still pisses you off. You’d give anything to be able to whip your shirt off like him. Your binder is sweaty and itchy.

You’re reduced to daydreaming about those blissfully cool (if terrifying) hours keeping Derek afloat when he suddenly stops. You follow his gaze to where Peter lays in the bushes, eyes glassy, throat a mess of red.

Derek digs the grave, but you spread the wolfsbane. An X this time, not a spiral. Derek can’t exactly seek revenge on the Alpha Pack when he killed Peter himself once. Afterwards, you brush the dirt from your hands, while Derek stands over the grave.

“Sometimes I think I’m cursed,” he says.

“I hear you,” you say, with feeling, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before you think better of it.

His eyes go wide. You tense, until something raw and broken flickers in them. Suddenly, you’re sucking on his lower lip, and he’s gripping your hips. Then he reaches for the hem of your t-shirt, and reality crashes hard.

“There’s something you need to know,” you stammer.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I already know.”

You suppose it’s not that surprising. Derek creeps around in your room. He has super senses. But . . . 

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

“I’m a fucking werewolf,” Derek answers. And . . . fair point.

* * *

You can’t meet Derek’s eyes when you strip off the binder. You toe off your boxers, toss your packer into the underwear drawer. Then he’s catching your chin, tilting your face up, and his body is solid and warm against your naked skin. When he kisses you, it’s electric.

You’d feared sex with Derek will be like something from the Discovery Channel. As hot as that seems in theory, you’re nobody’s bitch. But he’s hesitant, almost skittish. By now, you know it’s not because of you. It turns out you’re not the only one with secrets.

“Tell me what you want,” he rumbles, nipping at your throat. You’re too shy to speak, but you drag his head down. You’ve always been sensitive there, and it’s gotten better since you’ve started T. His stubble feels _amazing_ on your dick. 

And maybe your life is a horror novel, not a fairy tale. A kiss can’t break either of your curses. But when you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, it feels like a blessing all the same.

* * *

31.

Pairings: Jackson/OC

Warning: none

Picture used: 8

Not his music and not his scene but the liquid courage from his bedside table sloshed around Jackson's head fast enough it only left space for the throbbing bass and his hard cock. He thought he saw a glimpse of Danny somewhere, but he was lost in the throng of arms and bodies, chests rubbing against his back, fingers brushing along between his legs and over his ass before long.

"Haven't seen you here before?" someone shouted in his ear, following it with a slow grind, cock pressed to Jackson's hip.

"No," Jackson shouted back. Because he didn't do gay. But with Lydia gone, what was the harm in trying the cock. Danny didn't seem to mind it. So he went with it, getting handfuls of crotch and lewd promises whispered into his ear.

His cock was too hard to piss through at the urinal later, hard enough he contemplated jerking it down the drain. People came and went, but one guy stayed and watched from the side.

"Nice cock," the guy said.

"Thanks." Jackson brushed his thumb along the length, only then glanced across. Daddy-type, could be Allison's dad but wasn't, chest hair curling from under his shirt, beard.

A pause and some piss, finally, then, "You interested?" Jackson asked. He shook off and turned, looked at the guy properly again who nodded towards the stalls. It wasn't really gay if he did it when drunk, he figured. It was just one of those things, then, that he could throw in Danny's face the next time Danny moaned that jerking it to two guys doing a girl only made Jackson even more straight.

The guy led the way to the stall. Jackson still had his cock out, which seemed appropriate enough, but the guy stopped him when Jackson reached for his zipper.

"One thing," the guy said as he pushed his trousers down to mid-thigh. "Hope that's not an issue."

The information didn't compute through the haze of alcohol until Jackson got a second look.

"Shit," Jackson said, staring at pussy while his own dick tightened in his hand. It didn't look like Lydia's much, with the hair and a bit more of everything, but he'd had his face in enough pussies to- "I know my way around that," he said. That.

So he wouldn't suck dick and say he had, he figured when he got to his knees on the piss-stained floor and got his face into the man's crotch. His legs stuck out under the door, tiles mucking up his trousers.

"Suck my cock," the guy said when Jackson mouthed at the clit.

Jackson could roll with that. The guy's hands on his head and some length between his lips, he gave it a few sucks, tongue playing around the easy mouthful, getting under the hood and where the sweet stuff came from underneath.

The guy squeezed Jackson's face between his thighs, hair scratching over Jackson's cheeks. Jackson had one hand on his own cock, the other on the guy's ass as he got his mouth fucked, his lips and nose getting pressed into the guy's pubes with every thrust in, tongue teasing along the guy's tip when he pulled back far enough. The guy shuddered above Jackson, insides of his thighs and Jackson's cheeks getting wet with it, then he thrust his cock back into Jackson's mouth.

"Man, you're pretty," the guy said as Jackson stripped his cock, trying to balance against the force of the guy's hips at the same time, even as steps came and went, stopped outside, feet knocking against Jackson's. Fucking obvious what they were doing in the stall, Jackson with his mouth full, wet slurping, sucking sounds and all.

"Fucking. Coming," the guy got out over moans, adding clarity to the obvious, and Jackson left his mouth right there, sucked him good, as the guy jerked above him, hips thrusting away.

Jackson's face was covered in the guy's juices, his hand in his own come, when the guy sat back on the toilet seat, trousers around his ankles now, and palmed his crotch, stroking at it.

"Shit," Jackson said, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.

When he got back out into the club he still tasted the guy in his mouth, the music was relentless, and the night had only just started. He had hours to go. His head was a bit woozy, but what was another night he wouldn't really remember (a regular thing, that's what).


	3. Group C - With Warnings and Pairings

32.

Pairings:Derek/Boyd

Warning:

Picture used: 11

Boyd had done all the research he could before accepting Derek’s offer. He’d questioned Derek extensively, demanded demos, drove Derek mad with his constant asking, but he’d been determined to know, before taking the plunge.

His deepest imaginings were nothing quite like the reality of it though. He could feel everything. It made him queasy at first, too much stimulus making him disorientated, but soon he learnt control. He could tap in to what he wanted to hear (everything when Peter was about) and block out what he didn’t want to hear (Isaac’s ‘private time’).

It was probably the enhanced strength that he enjoyed the most. 

He cornered Derek in the shower and dropped to his knees, burying his face in Derek’s groin, inhaling the deep scent there.

Derek shifted a leg over Boyd’s shoulder, so Boyd could duck his head lower, nose a Derek’s balls and lap at the sensitive skin behind them.

Derek growled under his breath, fingers tight against the back of Boyd’s head. Boyd pulled back, sucking along the length of Derek’s cock. Derek raised up, shoving forwards, choking Boyd. Boyd wanted it deep in his throat, but not yet. He had boundaries to push first.

Boyd ducked his head again, this time putting his hands under Derek’s thighs and lifting.

“Wha-” Derek gasped as his feet left the floor. Boyd could hear Derek’s heart beat skip and speed up, the scrabbling of Derek’s hands against the tile. Boyd waited for a moment, to see if Derek would allow it, would give Boyd that trust. Derek’s heartbeat didn’t slow exactly, but it steadied, and Boyd took that as permission.

His shoulders burned, but he could hold Derek’s weight, which was so cool. He huffed out a breath, and licked at Derek’s balls, hair catching on his tongue.

Derek gasped out Boyd’s name, hand coming to cup the back of Boyd’s head once more. Boyd grinned and continued his ministrations, taking Derek’s balls into his mouth, groaning at the taste of him. He sucked gently, and Derek sucked in a breath, fingers flexing against his skull.

Boyd pushed Derek up more, shoving forward so he could lick at Derek’s hole, wet and awkward from the angle. He was starting to ache, arms shaking a bit, which made sense, it was enhanced power, not infinite power.

“Fuck, wait,” Derek said, climbing down from Boyd’s hands. Boyd felt a flash of disappointment, but then Derek turned, and leaned against the shower wall, bent over. Boyd shrugged and grinned. He could see how they couldn’t continue the way they were, but Derek had trusted him enough to let him try, and that was something.

Boyd spread Derek’s cheeks, rubbing a thumb against the tight furl there. Derek grumbled something, and Boyd leaned forward, pushing at Derek’s hole with his tongue. Once he had got Derek wet he sat back, pushing a finger into the clutching heat of Derek.

He was mesmerised by the sight and feel of his finger disappearing into Derek’s body. Boyd never thought he’d get here with Derek at all, never thought Derek would trust him enough.

“Get in me,” Derek growled. Boyd tutted, because Derek was still a pushy fucker, apparently.

* * *

33.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: Somnophilia & unprotected sex.

Picture used: 4

Stiles is not _obsessed_ with what's lurking in Derek's pants.

He just appreciates it. (And yes, it totally lurks, okay? Just like the rest of Derek.)

Surprising absolutely no one, Derek has kind of a big dick because he still is a pretty dick personality wise. But it's thick, uncut and longer than the average cock. Stiles would know because he's studied a lot of porn in anticipation of spending quality time with anyone's crotch that wasn't his own.

"Ugh," Stiles huffs, slumped on his side and kind of casually crushing Derek. Satisfyingly, even super Alpha is still panting a little heavily and Stiles is glad because his ass just got reamed. Like, it's kind of leaky back there with come and lube and probably Derek's spit because there had been rimming.

Because rimming is always the answer and Derek is a glorified dog.

Below him, Derek twitches when Stiles rolls away but prior experience foretells a catnap, as it's been five minutes since anybody came and lazy make-outs always inspire sleepiness in Derek.

Because Derek is a tender dude on the inside. Still an epic douche most of the time but somewhere in the charred (ha!) remains of his heart, there is some tenderness which manifests in naps and an affinity for babies.

It takes about three minutes for Derek to start softly snoring, little wuffles of breath that even make Derek's beard look soft and cuddly. It takes about three minutes and fifteen seconds for Stiles to move from post coital glow to wide awake and curious.

Honestly, he could go for a Mountain Dew right now.

But his thirst totally gets sidelined because... well, Derek's dick is distracting and Stiles can still feel the ghost brutality of how throughly well fucked that dick dicked him.

Next thing he knows, he's scooting down to get a better closer look because it's _right there_. It's soft, although still pretty intimating inside it's little foreskin cave. He just wants to say hi. Maybe thank it.

"Hey dude," Stiles whispers, elbows hooked over Derek's hairy, splayed legs. Above him, the rest of Derek snores on. "I just wanted to say, you're a pretty capable dick and I respect that."

On closer examination, the base is a little wet and yeah, that makes Stiles' dick twitch a little because that's _been in his ass_ and it's like _still glistening_. Why that's super hot is kind of beyond him right now. All he knows is that he really feels like he should lick it off.

Derek doesn't move when he curls his tongue around the base to lick at the messy wetness of lube and come. It tastes a little gross but Stiles is still into it. Now that his mouth is there though... he might as well give it a little suck, right?

Stiles has never had a soft cock in his mouth. It feels strange but kind of nice, the skin is loose and soft—a lot like mouthing at balls. It's different though, the way he can suck at the head and stick the tip of his tongue _inside_ —wow.

"Stiles," Derek hisses, sleepy and annoyed but his body betrays him because Stiles can feel him growing. It's not a rapid swell but Derek's dick gets a little heavier on his tongue and whatever room Stiles' tongue had to play with the little foreskin hat Derek had going on for his dick is gone.

Embarrassingly, Stiles feels like he might blow his load any minute.

It's unbearably hot, feeling the way Derek's dragged into wakefulness by his cock. Stiles' mouth is so fucking full—like he can take more now because Derek's dick was small and cute but now it's growing, nudging at the back of his throat, threatening to fuck his throat as raw as he fucked Stiles' ass.

Stiles gives in when Derek's fingers find his hair and just starts jerking off.

He comes when Derek sighs out his name, just like he does when he eats Stiles out. The fact that Stiles is sucking on a cock that has been in his ass not fifteen minutes before, _was still wet from being inside him_ has him coming into his hand and choking on the full weight and length of Derek's dick.

It's fucking awesome and, spoiler alert, he totally swallows when Derek comes like years later because he's a gracious dude. Derek's dick and Stiles' holes are basically a match made in tender, werewolf heaven.

Absolutely Stiles' tested and approved.

* * *

34.

Pairings: Deucalion/Stiles

Warning: non-con, humiliation, sensory deprivation, enema

Picture used: 12

Stiles woke up and found himself blindfolded and constrained. His arms were held against something solid, a wall, perhaps. His legs, though, were pulled up in the shape of a V. The cold draft against his ass told him he’d been stripped while unconscious. This did not bode well.

“Glad that you’re with us, Stiles of the Hale pack,” a voice nearby rumbled.

“Considering I’m naked and bound, without consent, I’m going to assume you’re one of the bad guys. Not sure what prompted the nakedness, usually being tied up is good enough for the bad guys. What do you want, pervert?” asked Stiles.

“What is your favorite color, Stiles?”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Simply trying to get to know you,” the voice replied. “Well?”

“Um, blue,” Stiles said with hesitation. “Any chance you’d be willing to let me down?”

There was a rustle of clothing as the man moved about. A hand petted Stiles’ cheek and flicked at the perky nipples. “Perhaps later when we’re done the lesson.”

Before Stiles could utter another question, a hand held on to his soft cock and slipped something squishy on top of the head.

“Woah, bad touch! Bad touch!” exclaimed Stiles as he tried to wiggle his way out.

A flick of the switch and the tip of his cock started vibrating. It didn’t take long for his cock to fill out and stretch the toy to its capacity. There was a nudge against his ass before something small slipped inside.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” the mysterious voice asked.

“Yes, you fucker,” Stiles groaned.

The vibration slowly got more intense, but there was also the sound of trickling water. It dawns on Stiles what’s happening the moment lukewarm water starts filling his colon.

“No, please, God!” cried Stiles as he pulled against his bonds.

It didn’t take long before he started feeling full. His cock is straining against his stomach, the vibration getting stronger as time passed, but his stomach is starting to cramp from all the water.

“Please. What do you want?” Stiles begged.

“That is the lesson you must learn today, Stiles. It wouldn’t be a lesson if I gave you all the answers.”

There’s sharp tug and the tube is pulled from his ass. Stiles clenches down as hard as he can to keep the water inside. The cramps are getting painful. The toy on his cock is keeping him hard, but the pleasure is almost painful at this point.

“Please, just let me go,” he pleads.

“That’s now how it works, Stiles.”

“I’ll talk to Derek for you. Is that what you want?” Stiles cries out with a particularly painful cramp. “You want him to join the gang?”

A hand flutters over Stiles’ stomach. “I would not oppose if Hale decided to join us, but he would have to fight his way into the pack like everyone else.” There’s a moment of silence before the voice continues, “Perhaps it’s time we adjourn this lesson.”

Stiles screams as the hand presses down on his stomach and there’s nowhere for the water to go, but out. The relief from the pressure is so grand that his brain interprets it as pleasure and he comes while emptying his guts.

Stiles is panting when there’s a whisper against his ear, “I’m curious as to how you’re going to explain this to your pack.”

* * *

35.

Pairings: Scott/OFC

Warning: voyeurism

Picture used: 10

Stiles love Scott. He really does. Brothers for life. But living with Scott is a different story.

He could live with the messy bathroom and the dishes in the sink and the possibly sentient dust bunnies growing under their couch. He could even deal with the claw marks on his Xbox controllers, and Scott had better be getting him new ones for Christmas.

The sex, though, is too much. Every weekend night, and an alarming number of school nights, Stiles has to clap on noise-cancelling headphones and turn the volume way up just to block out the sound. And that doesn’t do anything about the thumping.

It’s like he’s trying to fuck his way through all the waifish brunettes in the Bay Area. Which—Stiles feels for him, he really does. When the love of your life leaves you standing alone under the disco ball at your senior prom, well, it’s rough.

But this really doesn’t count as a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s doing nothing at all for Stiles’s sleep schedule. With all the screaming orgasms and the morning sex, it’s feels like it’s been months since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep. And there’s no talking to Scott about it. He just gets all bashful as the girl tiptoes out the door and turns the puppy eyes on Stiles and even the sleep deprivation can’t overcome Scott’s puppy eyes.

When Stiles gets home from his orgo lab that night, he’s tired and hungry and the last thing he’s expecting is to see Scott fucking some girl from behind on the landing of their staircase. They don’t notice him come in, don’t even look over when he closes the door and sets his backpack down.

Stiles is annoyed, pissed actually, but he can’t make himself stop watching. They didn’t even manage to get their clothes off all the way. Her underwear is caught around her knees, all bunched up like somebody just shoved it down, like they couldn’t even wait to take it off. Her shirt is rucked up under her breasts so all Stiles can actually see is her belly and the side of her thigh where Scott’s gripping her.

It’s—its’ really fucking hot is what it is.

Scott’s face is buried in her shoulder. His hands look huge against her hips. She’s pushing back into his thrusts with this long, smooth, undulating sort of motion and shouting a little every time he pushes in hard.

Scott starts to thrust faster and he slides his fingers down to rub against her clit. She bucks into it, gasping and Stiles is definitely hard. He moves, very quietly, into the living room, out of view of the stairs. He’s conflicted for a moment before pulls his dick out. It’s embarrassing how quickly he falls into their rhythm. As her moans get louder his strokes get faster. He feels his orgasm building right as she starts shouting Scott’s name and he manages to finish before it kills his boner. Stiles hears Scott’s distinctive orgasm groan and the thumping stops.

He gives them a few minutes to clear out before going back to the entryway to get his stuff. He’s walking up the stairs, carefully not touching anything, when he hears a long drawn-out moan coming from Scott’s room, definitely female.

Fuck it, he’s sleeping at Isaac’s.

* * *

36.

Pairings: Isaac/Erica/Boyd

Warning:cross-dressing,

Picture used:3

Erica is sprawled on the bed, using her mouth to investigate the soft skin covering Boyd's hip, dragging her tongue across the sharp point of bone with relish, when she hears the bathroom door open behind her.

"About time," she murmurs, rolling her eyes up to see Boyd's expression as he gets first glimpse, and the sharp flash of interest she sees raises the anticipation another notch, heat gathering between her legs until she can feel the wet heat sliding onto her inner thighs. "I didn't think you were going to come out at all."

She takes her time rolling over, wants this moment to last, the quick, deep thrum of Boyd's heartbeat singing in her ears, the lighter, faster thrum of Isaac's pulse as he waits for her. Her first glimpse of Isaac takes her breath away, and she lets her eyes slowly travel down the dark tank top and the sheen of sweat on his shoulders and neck, the barely there stretch of fabric that can barely contain his erect cock, and last of all the fish net thigh highs that do absolutely wonderful things to his legs and all sorts of filthy things to her imagination.

There's a spike of lust in the room that smells like all three of them and she lets her mouth fall open so she can taste it, lets it heat her from the inside out and make her nipples contract in something that feels too good to be pain. She slides off the bed and onto the floor in one graceful step, her hair falling against her naked back in a caress.

"So you like it, huh?" Isaac swallows, muscles contracting along the length of his throat, before smiling. "I figured you would."

"You can say that again," Erica breathes before she's in Isaac's space, fisting a hand into his hair and pulling him into a kiss that has no room for anything gentle. Not when she can feel the burn behind her eyes and the barely there press of fangs against her lips that means her wolf is close to the surface. She wants to shove him down and ride him, to feel the faint scratch of the fishnets on her ass, his low whines as Boyd keeps his mouth occupied.

There's a low rumble from the bed and Erica pulls back with a huff, slides a look over her shoulder. Boyd just looks at her and she rolls her eyes before using her grip in Isaac's hair to guide him towards the bed. She likes the way Boyd makes Isaac moan, so she can stand to share.

Boyd pulls Isaac onto the bed, slips a finger into the waistband of Isaac's panties and pulls that little bit so his cock can spring free. She hadn't thought the situation could get any hotter but the sight of Isaac's cock jutting out of his panties with the fishnets pressing white lines into his thighs makes her so wet she can't quite stifle the needy little moan that builds in the back of her throat.

She isn't really sure how it happens, only that she's moving forward and Boyd has turned Isaac around, so she can see his large eyes and kiss swollen mouth, his cock curling against his belly without the panties to hold it down. She pushes the panties down to his knees, holds the fish nets in place where the elastic keeps it secure, the thin lines scratching at her palms as she leans into to lick at the head of his cock.

Beneath Isaac's moan she hears the faint pop of the lube and grips at Isaac's thighs hard enough to get the chance to admire the bruises beneath the fish nets before they fade. She doesn't wait for Boyd. Not with their combined arousal making the air taste of spices on the back of her tongue. She seals her mouth over the head of Isaac's cock and then down, tilts her head so she can swallow around him. She knows when Boyd gets a finger inside, Isaac's low moan ratcheting up into keening desperation that has him gripping her hair tight enough to hurt.

Erica hums, fingers pressing hard against the fishnets. She lets Isaac start thrusting and each scrape against her fingers goes straight to her clit. She wants to press into that slick heat with her fingers, but forces her hands to stay on Isaac's thighs as he fucks her throat.

She'll get her turn.

* * *

37.

Pairings: Chris Argent/Peter Hale

Warning: Crossdressing (mild).

Picture used: 3 (very inspiring *cackle*).

Reference Pictures: Peter's skirt, garters and stockings (https://xdress.com/product/view/Z695)

Part: 1/2

"Sweet god…" 

Peter had told Chris to expect a surprise tonight, but he _really_ hadn't been expecting something like this.

In hindsight, yeah; sex with Peter has never been 'normal'.

"Well?" Peter asks expectantly. His hands are on his hips, where a _skirt_ rests, wrapped low around them. There's a pair of garters underneath that are keeping up a set of black lace hose – Peter's shaved his legs, Chris notes – and it's all completed by a set of black heels.

Peter wears it all _way_ too well. Chris is a pervert for _liking_ it, too.

His dick doesn't have anything against it; it chubs against Chris's thigh by the second. In plain view, no less, as Chris had showered and gotten comfortable as Peter had disappeared to the other bathroom. He leans back on his elbows and smirks, not bothering to hide the slight shame he feels over finding Peter appealing in _lingerie_. "Looks good."

Peter arches a brow sharply. "Good."

Chris's brows raise some. His lips purse briefly and he wets them, trying to articulate more to Peter's tastes. There are crosswires in his brain short-circuiting though. "Yeah. Very good. "

Peter rolls his eyes in exasperation but drops his hands from his hips and saunters over to the bedside. Chris wonders where the hell he learned to walk so smoothly in heels, then decides that he doesn't want to know. Just like how he doesn't want to think about how they even became something like lovers – dysfunctional at best. 

Peter lifts a leg and presses a pointed heel just beside Chris's thigh, a wily smirk pulling at his lips now. "Not even going to ask where I got this ensemble?"

"Don't want to know," Chris answers. He doesn't hesitate to drag a hand up Peter's calf. It's so _smooth_ , sans the slight texture of the stocking. He curls his fingers behind Peter's knee and gives him a small tug. "C'mere…"

Peter snorts softly but does anyway, kneeing onto the bed and gracefully straddling Chris's hips. Chris might not be as solid as the werewolf, but he's lean from keeping up with training. Just as broad through the shoulders, with a narrower waist. It's always a toss-up on who pins who, but tonight he knows exactly what Peter is after, and glides both his hands along Peter's thighs, up to cup his ass underneath that scandalous skirt, finding no underwear underneath. Should have known. Actually, now that he's taking time to look, he can see Peter's cock starting to lift the front some as it fills and thickens.

Peter smooths his hands over Chris's chest, loves to knead at him like a _cat_ , and squirms into his touch, wanting more.

 

Peter _scratches_ , all blunt nails, leaves red welts down Chris's chest. Chris _hisses_ and bares his teeth, digs his own nails into the fleshy part of Peter's ass, rocks his hardened dick under Peter's balls.

It's hard to say who kisses who, but it's _brutal_ , all teeth and tongue and pulling and sucking. _Filthy_. Peter drags the sides of his pointed high heels against the soft skin of Chris's outer thighs, and that's all it takes for Chris to flip him, pin him down. Peter fights, always does, it's instinct and Chris gets his teeth on Peter's neck, _bites_ hard enough to draw blood.

Peter lets out the lovechild of a snarl and whimper, scratches angrier marks down Chris's sides, digs hot points of pain on his hips; those will bruise later.

Chris claws right back at him, worries his teeth in Peter's skin, the sharp metallic tang of blood against his tongue fueling the fire pooling in his own veins. He manages to get hold of one of Peter's wrists and pins it over Peter's head, lets out a very human growl as he ruts against the werewolf.

Peter tenses and gasps out – then goes lax. Submitting. Just to Chris, just tonight. Next time might be different, but tonight Peter yields and raises a leg, hooks it over Chris's hip and digs a heel against his ass.

 _This_ is their relationship; push and pull. Acquiescing. Sex resulting in bruises and scratches. 

Chris isn't giving it up anytime soon.

He makes a point to get a picture of Peter afterward, looking utterly debauched, white streaking over his rucked up skirt. 

A dozen holes ripped in his stockings. 

A heel gone missing. 

Hair mussed.

Lips pulled into a cat-got-the-cream smile.

 _Perfect_.

* * *

38.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: student/teacher (both adults); AU

Picture used: 6

 

Stiles drags the charcoal over the paper, using his thumb to carefully smudge shadows. As always, the easels of the art class make a circle, the models positioned carefully in the center on a small stage.

They’re beautiful young men, in a sitting pose with their limbs entwined, leaning into each other. It could be something hot, sexy, and Stiles pictures that in his mind, a precious, intimate moment between two lovers. But these are models, paid to pose nude, and while they seem very comfortable, their cocks are soft, their kisses all a figment of Stiles’ imagination.

Stiles spies his art instructor Derek stopping his slow, creeper-like meandering around the classroom to speak quietly to one artist. Stiles tries very hard not to pay attention to that, or wish it was himself.

He goes back to his own sketch, losing himself in the creation. He doesn’t know how long he goes on before he startles when there’s a voice right behind him, close to his ear.

“Well then,” Derek says, voice low, gravelly. “That’s some artistic license you’ve taken.”

“I … what?” Stiles blinks at his sketch, feeling his eyes go wide in horror when he realises what Derek’s saying.

The men in his drawing look distinctly different than those actually in front of him. Same pose, yes, but one is significantly more muscular, with dark hair and stubble, and the other lean with a speckling of moles and an amused tilt to his mouth. In the sketch, their cocks are hard, their faces, body language, everything more aroused.

“See me after class,” Derek says, too casual, and moves on to the next person.

Stiles gulps and wishes he could disappear, but later stays as everyone else files out of the room. Stiles packs up his supplies, leaving the sketch hanging.

Suddenly, Derek’s right behind him again, looking over Stiles’ shoulder at it -- at _them_. Together. Sexually.

Oh god.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, breaking the silence he can’t handle.

“Why?”

“For--” Stiles gestures. “I shouldn’t--”

“You’ve got a great artistic eye.” 

Stiles is shocked; Derek isn’t one to be free with compliments.

“But--”

Stiles groans. “Of course there’s a but.”

Derek’s so close behind Stiles, mouth against his ear, that Stiles swears he can feel the curve of Derek’s lips into a smirk.

“But you don’t really see, do you?”

“I -- what? Of course I do.”

“I’ve seen you looking at me,” Derek says softly, “but you always glance away when I look back.”

“I--” Stiles never thought that Derek would, not like _that_.

He stands corrected when Derek presses against him, fully chest-to-back. Derek’s next words sends a million jolts right through Stiles’ body. “You draw me when you should be paying attention in class. Draw _us_. Explain your work.”

Stiles swallows hard, all attempts to maintain some sort of dignity flying out the window when Derek’s hand presses against his belly. Stiles relaxes into the solid wall of Derek’s chest, unable to stop it, pushing his ass back into Derek’s crotch.

Stiles … isn’t reading this wrong, he knows that now, and it makes him rather bold. “Because I want that. Want you.”

Derek growls lows, a rumbling sound the vibrates against the skin behind Stiles’ ear. Stiles shudders, all resolve snapping as he turns quickly in Derek’s arms and presses a kiss onto his mouth.

The kiss is a key that unlocks their little game; it becomes fast and heady in moments, mouths moving in desperate licks and sucks.

“Jesus,” Stiles gasps when Derek cups him through his jeans, rubbing hard enough and just so perfect Stiles could probably come from it all too soon.

Stiles wants more, wants to be closer, bared naked and taking their time. They end up on the floor, leaning against the small stage, side by side, their limbs entwined while jacking each other off.

Stiles laughs right before he comes, saying, “This is fucking _art_.” Derek rolls his eyes, but kisses a bead of sweat rolling down Stiles’ temple, and the intimacy of it makes Stiles’ shoot his load all over Derek’s hand. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then gives Derek the best fucking handjob ever, thrilling when Derek closes his eyes and trembles apart at Stiles’ doing.

“I can’t wait to sketch our next time,” Stiles says, kissing Derek’s bare shoulder. It shakes under his lips as Derek laughs lowly, sounding pleased with that plan.

* * *

39.

Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Warning:

Picture used: brief mention of #5, inspired by #9

 

The first time he tried this had been a disaster: an old man who kept calling him Carl, a group of dancing teenagers, and one girl who’d put a rabbit on the screen instead of herself. 

He went the second time because Peter made a comment about how he needed to meet people and that “kids today” were using Chatroulette. “It’ll be fun, Derek. Friends without ever leaving your ... classically gothic lifestyle.” 

Derek clicked into the chat and stared at his first partner, then tightened his grip on the keyboard and flicked a glanced at the door. He kept his eyes on hers as he slowly moved his mouse to --

“Hey daddy.”

He froze. The redhead winked and pulled the ends of two ropes. She moaned as the bonds twisted and pulled, as they wrapped around her breasts.

“I’ve been a naughty girl.”

Nope. Derek clicked the Next button and a man stared disinterestedly at him. Derek looked at the guy, the guy looked at back. Finally Derek gave a stilted wave, “Hey.”

The dude clicked out and Derek rolled his eyes. This was a mistake. He was about to log off, but figured three was the magic number. Another man came on the screen; his unbuttoned plaid shirt revealed smooth, defined muscle. Derek’s mouth watered and he made the chat full-screen. 

The man on the screen ran his hand around his neck. _Jesus, those fingers._ Two fingers disappeared above the screen then trailed down his chest leaving a wet sheen in their wake and Derek’s jaw dropped. The man’s fingers slid over his stomach and shook as he dropped them to the keyboard.

_Spkrs n mic fucked, u chat?_

Derek huffed a laugh and typed back, _Sure. You chat often?_

The guy didn’t reply immediately. He pushed back against a pillow, stretched out and pulled the computer closer. Derek saw a black vibrator and lube under the man’s knee and wondered where this was going. As the man typed something, his fingers swiftly moving over the keys, Derek realized he knew exactly where. And he was more than fine with that. 

_Often enough_

The man slid his fingers over his chest and tweaked his nipple, rolled the nub until it hardened and his body rolled with the pull. Derek’s eyes followed each movement and he felt himself harden. He licked his lips. 

_You always put on a show?_

_Dpnds on whose watching ;) y dnt u take smthng off, sxy_

Derek debated, then pulled his grey shirt off. The cold air pebbled his skin and his palms began to sweat; he spread his legs and ground into the friction of the denim. 

_U do ths often?_

Derek shook his head then typed, _First time._

_Good ;)_

Derek rolled his eyes and he started to type something back when he caught sight the keys on the table. His heart pounded in realization and he focused on the mole below the man’s chest, on the lacrosse stick barely in the corner, on the man’s fingers curling around his open shirt. _Fuck._ The man slid his shirt off familiar shoulders and tossed it off screen. 

_I take smthng off, U take smthng off_

Derek stared at the chat box; he looked straight into the camera and nodded. The other man made a show of pulling off his socks but Derek’s eye was on the lamp in the corner, on the blue wallpaper. He licked his lips and kicked his socks off, pulled one up to the camera and raised an eyebrow. 

He heard the rustle of the bedsheets through not-so-broken speakers and immediately tuned into the other sounds in the room. The other man cursed then pulled his jeans over his hips in an awkward display of skin and Derek watched as denim gave way to pale skin and a speckling moles.

The man wrapped his hand around his cock and his other disappeared offscreen. He jerked his hand slowly and Derek swallowed, slid his jeans over his hips. The man’s hand stilled and he cursed, groaned around another muffled word. 

Derek’s hands shook as he grabbed his phone, he kept it away from the camera’s eye and dialed. The X Files theme rang clear over the speakers and he smiled as he brought the phone to his ear. The man slipped, his elbow catching on the bed, and Derek saw the familiar cut of jaw and lips. The man licked his lips, “Hel...hello?”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“We really doing this?”

* * *

40.

 **Pairings:** Lydia/Derek/Boyd/Isaac/Others

 **Warning:** violence, blood, ritual sacrifice (everyone in this is a willing participant)

 **Picture used:** #7

_Once a year we gather to honor the gods for the growth of our crops and prosperity of our people. We offer seed and blood in hopes of good favor. These many years have been filled with drought and disease, cursed. For what sins we do not know, but the scales must soon tip in our favor for our very existence is threatened. In our desperation Lydia, leader of our people, has stepped forward as a willing sacrifice. A demand._

She lies bare on the altar, porcelain skin scrubbed clean and anointed with scented oil the night before. Her hair blazes bright in the twilight hour, burning like the wings of a phoenix. Seven chosen stand around her waiting for Stiles, the high priest, to begin the ceremony. Behind us the village is gathered. Their chants flood the clearing, filling the void with requests for blessings and mercy from the gods.

“Today we honor those that gave us life. Birthed us in their cradle and set us free to worship them. May the seed of our greatest warriors and the blood of our fairest maid please the gods. Let it begin.” With his words the clearing once again overflows with the cheering of our people. Their energy ebbs and flows through us, like a mighty chorus urging us forward.

“Derek.” It is my honor as leader of our army to take first and last.

As I position myself above her I find myself searching her face, even now waiting for her command, for we must be willing or the gods will never accept our offering. Pushing up to her elbows she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. She smirks, daring me to challenge her.

I cannot and so I press carefully forward, forward and in until her virgin’s blood mixes with the ceremonial oil reverently placed in preparation. Her back arches, body instinctively moving to ease the discomfort of my body between her thighs. We breathe. Then her nails dig into my forearms, chastising me my hesitance, and so I move. Matching my thrusts to the steady thrum of my heart until I groan and spill inside her.

 

We dare not waver.

“Isaac.” Stiles calls and my Second steps forward.

He’s far gentler than I, something I’ve never quite understood is how a man so vicious in battle could be so tender outside it. By the time he finds his release Lydia’s skin gleams with sweat and her face is flush with the beginnings of desire.

“Boyd.”

One by one my men step forward and find their place within her body, giving their seed to her to take to the gods. It’s a thing of beauty the way she allows them in, back arching and thighs clearly shaking with fatigue.

Each of the chosen have offered of themselves and it’s time for me to complete the circle. I take my time, pushing in slowly and dragging my cock in and out in the steadiest, surest of rhythms. This is about her pleasure now, her release to the heavens.

I use the spilt come of my brothers as lubrication to glide my fingers gently over her now engorged clit. She whimpers and clenches around me. It’s almost time. Stiles solemnly takes his place at the head of the altar, waiting.

“Now.” Lydia whispers. She’s ready to let go, to spill across the parched ground and fly alongside the lonely winds. Her body cries for release and her eyes demand our obedience. I speed my thrusts until I am overcome, my fingers bringing her flying over the edge with me.

“I will see it done.” She says with her last breath, just before Stiles slides the ceremonial dagger across her throat. The blood spills across her body and runs down the altar. It flows as if with purpose and the sacrifice is complete with her last fading breath.

“It is finished.” Stiles voice cracks dangerously with his proclamation and the village erupts in cheers. Clothes are soon discarded and through the night we will take each other in an effort to appease the gods.

As I leave to join the celebration I spare one last look for our fearless mistress. In life Lydia was the fairest of them all and in death her beauty supersedes anything of this realm.

The gods will be pleased. I can feel it in my bones.

* * *

41.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: non-consensual voyeurism

Picture used: #4

If there is a wall, and there is Derek Hale, Stiles is guaranteed to be slammed against it. For this reason alone, Stiles has timed his home invasion carefully, during Derek’s evening run. 

The whole place is creepy as fuck. How anyone could live here… The air is stale and damp, thick with the scent of ash. He picks his way up the blackened stairs, skirting fallen beams and holes in the floor. There’s not much to rifle through in Derek’s charred shell of a room - a half-burned dresser, a sleeping bag covered with a pillow and an incongruously white sheet. A duffle-bag spilling over with clothing. Broken furniture, scattered debris. There had to be something here to connect Derek to the string of brutal murders in town. Sure, he’d been absolved of his sister’s death, but the creep was hiding something. Stiles didn’t know what he’d find – receipts, photos, a signed confession – look, real detectives never knew what they were looking for ‘til it turned up, right? 

Thank God for creaking hinges – Stiles has time to dive under the broken desk at the foot of the sleeping-bag as heavy were-feet storm the stairs two at a time. Then Derek’s in the room, stripping off his sodden t-shirt and washing up in the adjacent bathroom. Stiles weighs his chances of sneaking out, but it’s too late. There’s the sound of water dumped down the drain, and Derek’s back.

The guy must be oblivious. Stiles is RIGHT THERE, but Derek’s standing there with nothing on but a towel slung low over his hips, body dripping with water, and this is where Stiles wishes he’d snuck away when he had the chance, because Derek is whisking the towel off to scrub his wet hair, his naked junk on display at eye level. And holy fuck, what an eyeful.

Tossing the towel over a broken chair, Derek stretches out on his bedroll. Stiles groans inwardly – there’s no way he can reveal himself, not with Derek there in all his glory. He settles in, hoping Derek will have a nap or something.

He’s not napping. Fuck. He’s pulled out his phone, reading emails or something. His other hand is drifting southwards, dragging absentmindedly through his happy trail. He’s not hard, but his dick is gorgeous – thick, heavy, uncut. 

 

As his dick begins to show some interest, Derek’s movements become deliberate and his dick grows impossibly thicker. His fingertips stroke upwards, circling the tip, gathering a drop of pre-cum to smooth the glide. He palms his dick with his other hand, pulling his foreskin downwards into a stretch that leaves the pink tip of his cockhead peeking through. He teases a fingernail deep into the foreskin, probing.

He fists a few strokes, eventually pulling his foreskin down. He doesn’t reach for any lube – just arches into his grip, forcing the head to emerge out the top of his fist, pulling back until the foreskin pulls generously over the top.

When he’s close, Derek eases his grip, thrusting into the ring of thumb and index finger, ring finger extending downwards until it reaches Derek’s hole. With no lube, he forces the tip of his finger into his hole, curling it to pull back at his rim. He has no leeway, sharp, shallow thrusts grinding his pelvic bone against the heel of his hand.

With a moan he arcs up, coming in thick white pulses, then he’s panting, fisting his cock softly as he rides the last of the aftershocks. When his hips give a final, Derek gathers up congealing come, feeding it to himself on two fingers.

It’s more than Stiles can take. With a shout, he comes untouched into his jeans.

Derek leaps from his bedroll, yelling “What the fuck, Stiles?”

Stiles stands, dazed from his orgasm. They stand off against each other, Derek freaking, and Stiles sobbing in terror.

Derek runs a hand over his face. “Searching my room? You… saw?”

Stiles nods. “Yeeeeah. I thought... You had to know – your wolfy senses…”

Derek snorts in disgust. “Where do you get your info, D&D? Just… GET OUT!”

 

As the door slammed shut after him, Stiles had an inkling there would be an entirely new intensity to any wall-slamming in his future.

* * *

42.

Pairing: Danny/Jackson

Warning: Underage, cross-dressing

Picture used: 3

"You have a ridiculous amount of shit, you know that?" Danny tapes yet another box closed.

"You didn't have to help, asshole," Jackson says, poking his head out of the closest.

Danny's hand is tangled in bits of silk. A single stocking slips through his fingers, unfurling to its full length. "Uh, do you have a box for Lydia's stuff?"

Jackson's pulse thunders in his ears. It would be so easy to lie and laugh it off. There are things he can't tell Danny, not if he wants to keep him safe, but Jackson’s leaving tomorrow; he can at least be honest about this.

"They aren't Lydia's. They're mine."

"Oh."

"I wear them sometimes, when things get to be too much."

"Oh," Danny says again.

Jackson clenches his jaw. "Listen, it's getting kind of late, so—"

"Can I see?"

"What?" Jackson doesn't think Danny would fuck with him, not about this, but he can't have heard him right.

"I want to see," Danny says. "I mean, if it's okay?"

"Yeah?"

Danny nods, gesturing for Jackson to come closer.

Jackson takes the bundle of lingerie from Danny's hand, placing it back in the drawer and gripping the edge of the dresser. He's terrified and excited; he's never dressed for anyone else before, not even Lydia.

The bedsprings creak and a quick look in the mirror confirms Danny has backed away to give him some space, and is sitting on the bed, watching him from behind.

Despite his nerves, Jackson knows he has no reason to be shy about his body. He undresses quickly and pulls on his favorite panties, a pair of crimson lace boyshorts with a deep vee in back that barely cover his ass.

When he bends over to pull on matching fishnets, Danny's moan gives him a much needed ego boost. He drags the stockings slowly up his legs, loving the way the wide weave shows off his muscles and clings to his skin. After adjusting the thick lace bands on the top of each thigh, he turns around, shifting from foot to foot.

"Oh fuck," Danny chokes out. His eyes are half-lidded as they travel up and down Jackson's body.

Jackson smirks, self-confidence building with each step he takes toward the bed. "I didn't know you were into this."

"I could say the same for you." Danny props himself up against the headboard. "And fuck off. I'm sixteen. Aside from dicks, I don't know what I'm into."

"Now what?" Jackson hates the uncertainty in his voice.

Danny swallows thickly. "I know wearing panties doesn't make you gay, but will you show me what you usually do?"

Aside from a few experimental kisses with Danny when they were younger, Jackson has never been with a guy. He's curious though, and likes the way Danny is watching him. He lies down, looking at the prominent outline of his dick stretching the lace, and the criss-cross pattern on his thighs.

Jackson feels the warmth radiating from Danny's body. His eyes close as he begins to touch himself, nipples tightening with every gust of Danny's breath against his skin. He reaches down and rubs himself through the panties.

"Tell me what it feels like," Danny whispers.

"A little scratchy, rough." Jackson squeezes the head of his cock, feeling the sticky wetness leaking from the tip and soaking into the lace.

"Can you—" Danny's voice hitches. "Will you pull them down?"

Jackson peels the panties down, hooking them under his balls. Danny takes a shaky breath when he wraps his fingers around his cock and begins to stroke.

"Fuck, you look good."

It's a heady feeling, knowing Danny is worked up over how he looks in lacy underwear. The sharp tang of their arousal is overwhelming; Jackson wonders if Danny can smell it too.

Jackson opens his eyes when Danny groans. His cock is straining against his zipper and he's rubbing himself through the fabric.

"You can take your dick out, if you want."

"Later," Danny groans.

Jackson spreads his knees a little wider, presses a finger behind his balls and fucks up into his fist.

"C'mon. Want to see you come."

That's all it takes. Jackson comes in long spurts across his stomach, thighs trembling as he works himself through it and squeezes the last drops from his cock.

He doesn't know what will happen next, or when they'll see each other again, but he feels so good. When Danny leans over to kiss him, Jackson meets him halfway.

* * *

43.

Pairings: Derek/temporary girl!Stiles/Lydia

Warning: Unsafe sex

Picture used: 2

 

Stiles hadn't meant for it to happen, but he couldn't stop himself. He could see the way they looked at him now, with his new curves, breasts full and hair falling down his back. Their eyes were fixated, following his every move.

They were _hungry_.

"Come here," Stiles orders, and drags Derek over him, between his naked thighs, while Lydia kneads circles on his scalp. They still have clothes on, all three, as Stiles presses his head into Lydia's lap and Derek mouths at his collarbone.

" _Fuck_ ," Stiles breathes, feeling the slickness between his thighs with the pad of his finger.

" _Stiles_ ," Lydia says, and how many years has he waited to hear her say his name like that? Her nipples are hard, and Stiles reaches out to touch, pinch them until she cries his name again and Stiles has to silence her with his mouth.

Derek is nuzzling Stiles' neck still, leaving dark bruises; moles remain scattered like constellations, even on his breasts. Derek's dick is hanging hard against Stiles' thigh, the tip leaving wet trails that make the bottom of his stomach drop with indescribable lust.

"I want," Derek is panting in Stiles' ear as he watches the way Lydia's tongue licks her lips.

"What do you want, Derek?" Stiles tilts his face up, his hair wild, but Lydia pushes it back for him.

"I want you," Derek growls, and his hand dips down to nudge at the wet folds between Stiles' thighs. He lets out a whine, and suddenly one of Derek's fingers is filling him up, stretching his dripping cunt wide open. "I want to touch you, I want to _fuck_ you."

"Yes," Lydia whispers eagerly, "I want to see him fuck you, Stiles."

He should say no. (Not like this, not when he knows that what they want isn't really _Stiles_ , but this body he now inhabits.)

Yet, he can't bring himself to. Saying no would mean to not have this. To not have Derek, who hates him. To not have Lydia, who resents him.

Stiles isn't enough when he's a man.

"Yeah," he nods, rocking his hips down so Derek's finger fills him up completely, and _oh_."Fuck me."

Derek bites grooves into Stiles' jaw, and then there's two fingers, three. Stiles' body opens up like it was made for them, and he shudders and cries as Derek fucks him open with rough thrusts of his wrist.

Lydia's panties are soaked when Stiles pulls them open; he licks inside and she _screams_. Stiles likes it, likes how she sounds and how she tastes and how _huge_ Derek's fingers are inside of him. He manoeuvres his arm, and then he's finger-deep in her cunt.

" _Stiles!_ she cries, and twists down, fucking onto his finger. "Don't stop, _please don't stop_."

Stiles would assure he would never stop, but then Derek's fingers are gone, and his cock is there. Stiles tears his eyes from Lydia to stare up, at the red heat in Derek's eyes. He looks hungry, but he also looks uncertain, and Stiles doesn't want to see that.

"Fill me up, buttercup," he purrs, and uses his free hand to wrap around Derek's thick dick, guiding him in.

One blink and the uncertainty is gone. Derek pushes in, hard and fast, and Stiles feels the breath punched out of him. His hand flies up to Derek's neck to hold on, adjust to how _huge_ it feels, but sweat makes his grip slippy. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," Stiles chants as Derek thrusts in deep.

Stiles' fingers in Lydia try to match Derek's rhythm, but it's impossible; soon it's just a writhing mess of bodies, and Derek begins to lose it. Determined to get Lydia there first, Stiles twists his fingers hard, fucking in one more time, and she screams as her orgasm crests.

"Jesus," Stiles whispers, and as Lydia slumps back, his hand moves to his own wetness, where his and Derek's bodies are joined, and then he's falling off the edge, mother _fucker_.

" _Shit!_ " Stiles gasps, and the backs of his eyelids go white.

He comes back to with Lydia's mouth hovering over his. Distantly, Stiles acknowledges that Derek is still fucking him, and he's close, he's got to be, so he reaches out a hand to float over Derek's racing heart and whispers an echo:

"Fill me up, buttercup."

Derek howls as he comes, and Stiles feels it rushing into him, hot and full. He buries his face in Lydia's neck, clutching Derek's chest.

He won't let them go.

* * *

44.

Pairings: Allison/Stiles

Warning: implied dub-con (creatures made them do it), voyeurism, light blood play 

Picture used: #10

 

She didn’t even realize she was bleeding until everything was over.

Her dad was standing with Derek and inspecting the bodies of the creatures that had been tearing through Beacon Hills resident. Scott had his arm wrapped around Isaac who was still healing after one of them had almost torn him in half.

He’d stopped meeting her eyes sometime after she had called her dad to come help. She was trying to help but the way he had looked at her was the way he had been looking at her since Boyd had come back without Erica.

Scott was settling Isaac into his mom’s car, his back to her.

That’s when she felt the burn on her forearm.

Before she could inspect it Stiles was at her side, his hands gentle on her arm as he lifted it up. The cut was a angry red line that stretched from the inside of her elbow to her wrist. It was bleeding steadily and the more she looked at it the more it burned. Mixed in with the red where specks of blue that matched the color of the creatures skin.

She tried to pull her arm out of his grip, wanting to curl it closer to her and deal with it when she got home.

He just huffed and held tight, his nails a duller sting that she could focus on. “Here,” he had a wrap of bandages in his hand. His movements were quick and practiced.

“Thanks,” Allison was grateful that at least someone was talking to her.

“No problem.” he tied it off and tucked the rest into his back pocket. “I can give you a ride home?” he offered and that had gotten Scott’s attention.

He was watching them now, hand on the door of the car and eyes hard.

Stiles was holding out his hand.

She laced her fingers with his feeling a small shock as their skin touched and instantly dismissing it. She let him pull her towards his jeep, ignoring the burn of Scott’s eyes on their backs.

~*~

She had asked him to come in.

He’d looked lost and the words had come out before she could think them through.

She let her bow drop to the floor and turned to face him. Her skin felt flushed and there was an itch building under the surface.

Stiles stood in the middle of her room and rubbed at the back of his neck. His shirt pulled up at the motion and Allison moved forward fingers tracing the slash of blue tinged red that marred his skin. She hadn’t seen it, his shirt was dark and the closer she got the more she could see the frayed edges of her the claws had torn through. His scratches were deeper then hers had been.

“You should put something on that.” his skin was hot against her hand and she felt the way it rippled at her touch. Their eyes meet and his fingers wrapped around her wrist the shock back, sizzling between them

“Yeah,” his voice was rough and she didn’t know who moved first. They crashed together into a rough kiss. His hands dug into her hair, tilting back her mouth and Allison pulled his shirt up dragging the blood against his skin.

They pulled back long enough for him to pull his shirt off over his head and when they meet again his fingers were digging into her hips. He spun her around until her back was pressed up against his chest. Her fingers were shaking as she undid the button on her jeans, pushing them off and she felt him shift behind her and do the same.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against his shoulder as she felt the heat of his dick against the back of her thighs. She was wet and he slid easily into her, pressing in steadily. One arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him and the other cupper her, teasing at her clit.

He set a rough pace and she moaned, shaking in his arms and arching her back as she tried to catch her breath. She turned her head and they breathed against each other. His pupils were blown wide and his heartbeat was thundering against her chest, matching hers. The cut on her arm was throbbing and they were burning up together. Allison didn’t care, needing more. 

Neither of them saw the pair of golden eyes watching them from her window.

* * *

45.

Pairings: Sterek (?) Inspired (I guess one could say) by 12.

Warning: Non-con (?)

_”Stiles? Are you done yet?”_

At his father’s somewhat aggravated yell form inside the house, Stiles bolted up from the box he’d been sitting on and guiltily shoved the old gaming magazine into the waiting trash bag. 

“Almost, sir,” he yelled back, hoping his father wouldn’t come into the garage and see that he wasn’t, in fact, anywhere near done. He hurriedly shoved the rest of the magazines into the trash bag, then dragged it to join the others sitting on the driveway. “Just a little bit--“ His father appeared in the doorway. 

“Longer.”

His father sighed, shoved a hand through his hair then shoved his hat on. “I’ve got to get to work. Finish before I get home, got that?”

Stiles glanced at the mess remaining, but nodded. “Yes sir.”

The moment his father’s truck turned the corner Stiles sat down again. This was not exactly how he’d planned to spend his Saturday. Derek’d promised he’d be back in town that afternoon and the last thing Stiles wanted was to be hot and sweaty when he saw him. It was fine if Derek was the reason for being hot and sweaty but-- 

Stiles’ eye caught sight of the corner of a red box hidden beneath some old blankets. Curious, he walked over and pulled the box out. “What the--?” He stared at the box in disbelief. The dust and grime covering it did little to hide the picture on the box of a young laughing woman bolted to a wall. Naked. 

What was his dad doing with something like _this?_

He opened the box, noting the packing slip inside. His face heated furiously when he saw the date, and the name on the slip. His mother’s, and before he was born.

Fuck, _Parents._ He could’ve lived the rest of his life without finding this box.

Then Stiles had an idea... He finished cleaning the garage in record time, threw the box into his Jeep and drove off. Hopefully he had time to set things up before Derek got there.

* * *

Maybe the blindfold had been a bad idea.

Plus, it was sort of cold to be bolted flat against a wall, his jewels hanging out. 

The problem was, though he’d managed to set up the wall mounts himself and even slip into them for the most part (not quite like the girl on the box - he was not that stupid, or brave), but now that he’d slid his free hand into the binding, he couldn’t get it out again. But he was hard and weeping and excited and this was going to be so fucking awesome...

Then he heard footsteps approach. “Well well, what do we have here?” 

_Fuck._

“P-peter?” Stiles whimpered as a hand ran down his bare leg. “Is that you? Where’s Derek?”

A hand covered his mouth. “Shhh, pretty boy. You were waiting for Derek?” Stiles struggled to get free but the vice-like grip over his mouth stilled him. “I know you’re disappointed. Don’t go away. Hear?” Peter’s chuckle sent ice through Stiles’ veins. The footsteps walked away and he was left shaking and dammit he was hard. 

The footsteps returned, slow and deliberate, and stopped in front of him. “Peter?”

“Shh...” The hand covered his mouth again, but another hand grabbed his aching, weeping cock. 

Stiles gasped as whoever it was omg not Peter omg Derek would kill him and then it would be his, Stiles-the-idiot’s, fault, and then there’d be a war between all the werewolves and the Argents would come out shooting and, “FUCK!” he yelled as a hot mouth descended on his cock.

Teeth scraped as the mouth descended, then pulled back again. Fingers played with his balls, teasing his hole, making him writhe and moan but he’d done too damn good of a job with the bondage equipment and he could not move.

The pull on his cock was mind-blowing. His whole body shook as he moaned with every descent of the hot mouth. Guilt and excitement flashed through him; he was hot, so fucking hot, omg Derek would be so fucking pissed how would he make it up to him? Fuck fuck _fuck_ he was going to blow into Peter’s mouth...

“Stiles, come for me, baby.”

A sob tore through Stiles as he obeyed and shot his hot come into Derek’s mouth. When he was spent, and a grinning Derek pulled the blindfold away, all Stiles could say was, “You _bastard!”_

Derek just laughed.

* * *

46.

Pairings: Erica/Jackson/Lydia

Warning: Zombies

Picture used: 2

Lydia tested the traps, stepped delicately around the series of trip wires. There had been a sharp learning curve involved-- physics hadn’t been her strongest.

What had once been the Sunshine Toy co. was now her empire and she was ruler here. Everything was under her control in a way it hadn’t been since before everyone died.

\--

Erica’s parents had seemed kind of crazy to everyone else, not the collecting people’s ears kind of crazy but the more benign conspiracy theorists. Her mother still thought her childhood seizures were alien messages.

Still they died before they could use the stock-piled food and water in the basement. Erica had beat her mother to death with a lacrosse stick and stabbed her father in the eye. It was the least she could do.

\--

Jackson probably would have been an alcoholic fuck-up, too rich to see sense, to emotionally damaged to understand why everything felt wrong. Only the world ended and something bigger took over instead.

\--

Erica and Jackson sort of hated each other in school, he was the all-star and she was the freak from the wrong side of the tracks. Her house caught fire, she killed his neighbour and saved his life. There was _no one else_ but each other after that and all those things that seemed so important suddenly ceased to exist.

There was only the dead.

\--

Lydia found them. They were like a pair of alley cats, distrustful and vicious. Almost feral. Lydia lived in her empire of half-made dolls and boxes of stuffed toys.

Girl had a gun pointed at her face, her blond hair looked like someone had cut it recently with a pair of dull scissors and her dark eyes were fever bright. The man behind her was too-thin by far, body pulled tight in a fight or flight response.

She was gambling here, hoping to hit the snake eyes. “Relax,” Lydia purred, “nothing here but us.”

“And them,” the male nodded his head at the undead as they beat themselves senselessly against the bay windows that were keeping them out of the gutted Macy’s. 

“And them.” Lydia agreed graciously.

\--

Lydia bit her fingernails ragged. She’d brought them back because, because, because -- _damnit_ should couldn’t remember any more. They were interlopers in her kingdom.

Jackson looked at her, cautious and callous, as if he had never learned to be anything else. Erica was aggressive, and they clashed hard while drawing lines in the sand. Lydia hated it, this was hers to control and suddenly everything was different and she didn’t know what she would do if she lost everything again.

\--

Lydia plotted to kill them-- until something worse came along.

They blundered into her kingdom, disgusting and filthy. They easily circumvent the traps, they were made to keep out the dead, the only brains the dead have are the ones being digested.

“Oh, got a pretty one.” One says.

Lydia was spitting furious (and scared).

It was something like a revelation when Jackson splattered his brain all over.

\--

This had probably been a nice house once. Surely the people who lived in it were nice (S&M porn hidden in the back of the closet, Lydia had only wanted a new blouse; flicking through pages that got her hot).

“There’s a good girl,” Lydia smoothed Erica’s hair back. Erica looked up at her, smile curling rough around the edges and pulled back to tease Lydia’s clit with only the tip of her finger. Wordlessly saying **‘make me’**.

Lydia bit off a sound, snarled her fingers in her hair and pulled her up for a rough kiss. She was sitting on an end-table, one foot on the ground, Erica’s head cradled in her lap.

Erica whined high in the back of her throat as Jackson’s hips stuttered forward, desperate, shoving her forward a little breaking their kiss.

He was staring at them, hot-eyed and possessive. Lydia curled her fingers into Erica’s hair and rode her fingers jerkily while Jackson fucked her hard.

“Come on Jacks,” Lydia breathed, “give it to her, she wants it.”

Jackson’s chin hit his chest, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He came helplessly at the sound of her voice, moan strangled in his throat.

He ate his come right out of Erica when Lydia told him to, getting his face messy.

They lay in a tangled pile of hair and limbs on the floor, coming down. She was Queen of a new kingdom now.

* * *


	4. Group D - With Warnings and Pairings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - Contains art that is not safe for work (NSFW).

47.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: None

Picture used: #3

It takes weeks of planning and wheedling, but in the end, Stiles manages to get Derek (mostly) into costume as Dr. Frank N. Furter for a night out at Rocky Horror. Stiles has to admit, he loves Derek’s leather briefs, but even more than that, he can’t wait to get him alone so he can unwrap him in private.

* * *

48.

Pairings: Derek/Stiles

Warning: Body modification

Picture used: 4

* * *

49.

Pairings: Stiles/Derek

Warning:

Picture used: #11

[](http://i.imgur.com/b5a373c.jpg)

* * *

50.

Pairings: Lydia/Peter

Warning: magical bondage, implied consent issues

Picture used: 5 & 7

* * *

51.

**Pairings** : Derek/Stiles

**Warnings ******: None

**Picture used** : 3

* * *

52.

Pairings: Derek Hale

Warning: Gender Swap

Picture used:5


	5. Group A - No Warnings or Pairings

1.

"D'rek?" Stiles asks, voice heavy with sleep. They spent the afternoon leisurely fucking until they fell asleep in Stiles's bed. By evening they'd woken and migrated to the sofa; curled up watching Firefly.

Derek's hand stills from slowly petting Stiles's hair, waiting for a reply.

Stiles butts his head into Derek's hand until he resumes. "I'm ready for round four."

"You sure?" His voice cracks, they've been silent for so long in their comfortable, domestic bubble. Derek never thought he'd get moments like this in his life; didn't think he deserved them.

"Mhmm." Stiles rolls over, letting his cheek rest against Derek's cock, already half-hard. The material's rough against his cock, he almost wishes he'd pulled on underwear.

Derek lets his hands trail down from Stiles's hair, down along his neck, watching as Stiles arches up to bare his throat. He runs his fingers lightly over all the marks that he's left there, just now starting to blossom into bruises.

"You're not too sore?"

Stiles shakes his head slightly. "Want more."

"Greedy little pup."

Stiles whole face lights up, grinning. "You got it in you or what?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "And the person who said, 'that's all I can take' and then fell asleep was..."

"Pffbt, that was _hours_ ago. Wanna fuck now."

It's only a second before Stiles is pulling himself and straddling Derek on the sofa. His arms slip over Derek's shoulders and he's right there in Derek's face.

"Hi you." He grins dopily.

Derek half-smiles. "Hey."

It's Stiles that leans in and captures Derek's lips, his own still kiss-bruised. Stiles grinds his already-hard cock against Derek's, groaning into Derek's mouth.

He runs his hands up the back of Stiles's shirt--Derek's shirt--and drags blunt nails drag up Stiles's back, feeling him surge up. Feeling their kiss deepen and Stiles's slip his tongue into Derek's mouth, the slick slide as their spit mingles.

There's no question who's in control here, not as Stiles urges Derek onto his back, pulling away only to strip off his tee. Derek lets out a sound of protest at that, he liked Stiles wearing his shirt.

"Oh shut up, I've gotta smell like I've showered in you."

Stiles tugs at Derek's jeans, until he pulls them off. Derek lets his thighs fall open as Stiles settles between them, he grabs the base of his cock and offers it to Stiles.

"Finally," Stiles whispers as he drags his lips up Derek's hard cock and circling the head; such a fucking tease.

Stiles drops a few kissing onto his thigh, rubbing his cheek against the hair there.

The first touch of Stiles's tongue on his cock makes him moan: yes, good, not enough. Stiles barely hesitates before he _goes_ for it. He never does anything half-heartedly.

Derek can't tear his eyes away from Stiles going down on him, wetly lapping at his head, everything so light and teasing. He can feel his dick jerking as Stiles licks it, feel his balls drawing tighter as Stiles drops to them and sucks right at the base of his cock, between his balls and fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Stiles," Derek growls, grabbing Stiles and urging him up for a kiss.

Stiles is laughing slightly as he pulls away. "Mmm, you taste like lube and come. Delicious." He pulls a face.

Derek rolls his eyes and flips them, pinning Stiles to the sofa.

He tugs off Stiles's worn boxers, hitches his legs up, and runs a hand through Stiles's exposed cleft. There's still some lube smeared around his hole from earlier, but more importantly the plug is still snugly inside Stiles.

Stiles jerks as he nudges it, pulling him down into biting kisses as Derek hooks his finger through the little finger-hole and starts to slowly twist it within Stiles.

"Think I'm still gonna be full of your come?"

Derek pulls at the plug and Stiles shudders.

"Oh yeah, go on, do it, do it," Stiles urges.

Derek can feel him bearing down on the plug and so he tugs.

Stiles's hole is there, a string of come clinging to the end of the plug, Derek's dropped three loads up there today and fuck, there's going to be at least one more.

"You're so fucking good for me," he whispers, dipping a finger in and pressing down on Stiles's stretched out ring.

Stiles's cock jerks and he's finally speechless as Derek pushes his fingers further in, letting his own spunk and left-over lube coat them.

"Derek..."

"Soon," he promises, pushing his fingers further in and he can steadily stroke down against Stiles's prostate, just to watch him arch off of the sofa.

"Fucker!"

Derek grins. He's going to love filling that hole up again.

* * *

2.

 **Title:** Quiet Moments

These are the moments that Stiles secretly treasures, like some lovesick teenage girl. Honestly, though, he can’t find it in himself to care. Because these are his moments to hold onto, his moments to do what he wants with, his and Danny’s moments. They are few and far between right now, living on separate ends of the country, and he has the right to pick and choose the ones he wants to really savor.

Stiles tangles their fingers together and kisses Danny’s knuckles that peek out from between his. He doesn’t say anything, but feels Danny huff in fond exasperation against his neck, where he’s licking against his pulse point.

It’s late Saturday night, the first weekend of Spring Break, and Danny has only just gotten off the plane a couple hours ago. Stiles loves his dad for “having a thing” that left them an entire empty house for the weekend. Especially right now, when they’re sitting completely naked on the couch, Stiles’ leg thrown across Danny’s lap and their erections stiff between them, while they kiss and touch lazily, just happy to be with one another.

“I missed you.” Stiles doesn’t mean to say it again, because he knows Danny knows (especially since he’s told him probably 20 times since he walked in the door only an hour ago), but he can’t help himself. Senior year had been the best year of Stiles’ life, because that’s when he and Danny had come together. Stiles had always known he probably had a thing for guys, too. It was just that his love for Lydia had always overshadowed it. But when Danny had been captured by those damn Brownies at the beginning of senior year...

Well, Stiles’ reaction surprised no one, except maybe himself. But even then, he’d known that he’d had a thing for Danny for a while. It just needed a kickstart.

Being separated for college after a really amazing year together is far from easy and Stiles is not shy about expressing how excited he is that it’s almost summer vacation, because everyone can just come home. But he’s more happy that Spring Break is an actual thing.

Danny sucks a deep mark into Stiles’ collarbone, eliciting a moan of appreciation from Stiles, before pulling back. The hand not linked with Stiles’, settles gently on the side of his face and turns Stiles to look at him.

Danny’s eyes are warm, open, inviting and Stiles finds himself smiling softly at him. Danny smiles back. “I missed you, too.” And then he moves his hand behind Stiles head and pulls him forward to kiss him.

The kiss starts off sweet; a gentle caress of their tongues together and the occasional scrape of teeth. But then Danny tilts his head just so and slots their mouths together. It’s immediately wet and hot and dirty and Stiles finds himself straddling Danny’s lap and aching for more.

Stiles tangles his hands into Danny’s hair and pulls gently, while Danny’s hands first settle at Stiles’ waist and then slip down to knead at his ass. Stiles groans into Danny’s mouth and rolls his hips forward, causing their cocks to slide together sinuously.

They moan into each other’s mouths as Stiles continues to rolls his hips and Danny let’s his fingertips move closer and closer to Stiles’ hole, neither one willing to break the kiss. Danny finally let’s the tip of his middle finger stroke across Stiles’ opening before slipping it inside and then further to the second knuckle.

Stiles gasps and arches his back. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters and wraps his hand around both their cocks, grip tight and strokes firm. “Fuck, I love you.”

Danny attacks Stiles’ mouth again and Stiles’ hand moves quicker, release only a moment away if they could just reach it together. Stiles feels his balls tighten up, feels the way Danny’s breath stutters against his lips, and knows.

On one last stroke, Danny slips his index finger in beside his middle and Stiles falls over the edge, coming hard against Danny’s chest and stomach, his own hand. Danny watches and as Stiles gives him a few more strokes, twisting his wrist just so at the head, he grunts into Stiles’ collarbone and follows.

They are a mess, but Stiles can’t find it in himself to move. So, he rests his forehead against Danny’s shoulder and just breathes, Danny’s fingers still buried in his ass.

Danny sounds sleepy, but content when he says, “I love you, too.”

* * *

3.

Stiles always suspected that something was going on with Erica and Lydia. It wasn’t overly obvious, of course and could entirely just be wishful thinking on his part.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Stiles stood gapping in the doorway, his college bag having dropped heavily to the ground when he first caught sight of – well, that. Lydia was stretched out, naked except for a pair of fishnet stockings, across the table, her legs spread and one hand above her head, clutching the edge of the table, whilst the other was buried into Erica’s blond hair, holding her in place firmly, despite the fact that it was obvious that Erica could break away anytime she wanted.

And it didn’t seem like she did. Her legs were spread and parted, her backside, red from what looked like handprints but slowly healing, up and poised, and she eat noisily at Lydia’s pussy. She panted and slurped and her hands were shaking as she clutched at Lydia’s pale thighs, as if she were a drug addict getting her fix. Stiles, he…well, he stared, a lot, committing everything to memory because this had to go into his wank bank. No question about it.

After a few seconds, and with the girls seeming as if they were in no way planning to stop, Stiles was beginning to wonder whether they had noticed him. Maybe he should clear his throat? Shut the door loudly and then enter the room? Shout out “hello” or probably the more accurate word “Fuck”? But he was saved from having to say anything, by Lydia cracking her eyes open and turning her head to face him. He thought maybe she was going to shout at him or something for just staring, but instead she grinned, predatorily, dangerously, and if he wasn’t hard before, he definitely was now.

“Good, you’re here,” she said, her voice breathless and rough, despite the composer of her words, “She’s been like this for hours waiting for you. Not that she minds, do you Erica?”

What Erica said, was muffled by pussy and Lydia tipped her head back moaning at the vibrations. She glanced at Stiles again.

“She’s good, but she learnt from the best,” Lydia continued, and Stiles watched as she rubbed her pussy on Erica’s face, her lean hips thrusting upwards and thighs quaking a little at the pressure.

“I…” Stiles tried to say something, although he wasn’t sure what, and his voice cracked, “I don’t…”

“But sometimes, pussy isn’t enough. And as much as she loves a strap-on, she hasn’t experienced the real life. I wouldn’t want to deprive her,” the redheaded sex temptress arched an eyebrow challengingly at him, “Can you help with that?”

“I-yes,” Stiles blurted out.

Lydia hummed appreciatively, “Good. Strip.”

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice. He struggled out of his clothes, his foot getting caught in his jeans and his t-shirt getting stuck around his head, before they finally hit the floor, and the whole time his eyes were locked on the two girls. Lydia ordered Erica to her feet, marched the unsteady girl over to their cupboard, and spread her out across her. Erica’s legs fell apart easily and her head was resting against Lydia’s stomach when the redhead laid across the lounge chair beside it. Lydia spread her legs and encouraged Erica’s hand down to between her legs, and then sighed at the insistent rubbing.

Lydia then looked at Stiles again. “Would you hurry up?”

He approached on shaky ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ legs, and swallowed a little when he saw the lust in Erica’s face, the plea to come, and the way her pussy convulsed with the need to be filled. Fumbling with a condom – Lydia was always prepared – he slid it down his cock and, with a moment’s hesitation to get Lydia’s permission, he pushed into Erica’s open hole. Her pussy clung to him eagerly, greedily, and both he and Erica let out moans of pleasure.

“Hold her legs up,” Lydia ordered. Stiles fumbled to oblige, keeping Erica spread, before thrusting forward.

Lydia scoffed. “Oh come on, Erica can take hard than that. She wants you to fuck her, so do it right.”

Erica shivered all over at the words and made a noise of approval and Stiles, well, he drew out so just the head of his cock stayed in, watching the urgent way she tried to grabbed at him again, before he thrust forward sharply. His balls slapped against her arse, and his grip tightened on her thighs as he tried to get more purchase.

Lydia watched him approvingly, before looking down at Erica, tracing the seam of her lips. “Is that good Erica? Can you feel him, all of him? He’s so hard isn’t it, and you’re so wet. So wet for Stiles to take you, so wet from eating my pussy. Hmm…” she dipped her head for a kiss, filthy and dirty, sucking at her tongue and biting her bottom lip.

When Stiles came, Erica cried out and clung to him, one hand digging into his shoulder and marring it with pink strikes. He looked up shakily at Lydia, as if seeking praise.

She smirked at him. “How long is your refractory period?”

“Uh…”

* * *

4.

If there had been any werewolves nearby the first time Stiles called Derek “creeperwolf,” they would have picked up on his racing heartbeat.

Derek was very good at not being noticed, his heightened senses made him a natural at collecting information. Admittedly, he did use his skills to sneak up on people sometimes, much more difficult when it was a pack member, easy as breathing when it was Stiles, hence the nickname he bestowed on Derek.

But Stiles was resourceful, and for a few moments of internal panic, Derek thought he must have found out his secret.

* * *

It was just curiosity the first time. He came home early after school because coach canceled practice. The smells and noises coming from the house, specifically from Laura's bedroom, he _knew_ it was sex, but he didn't _really_ know. He was 13. His knowledge of sex came from other 13-year-olds in the lunchroom.

So he climbed into the tree nearest Laura's bedroom, knowing the forest would provide adequate cover, especially because Laura was too preoccupied to pay attention. She must have ditched last period, knowing no one would be home until at least five.

Her boyfriend wasn't a werewolf. He was just a guy in her grade at school. He was thrusting into her as she lay back, her legs spread wide. The noises she made sounded an awful lot like pain, but she clearly wasn't in pain. Her boyfriend was panting and grunting with every thrust.

Derek was almost instantly hard. Yes, he would pop a boner at the way his jeans rubbed against him sometimes, but this was a direct causal link. He'd seen a porno before, and it was hot, but it was nothing like seeing it live.

He didn't jerk off in the tree right then, but when he took a shower that night, it was all he could picture as he stroked himself. He cut Laura out of his fantasy, replacing her with a generic face. The image of two sweaty, naked bodies thrusting and slapping together was enough to get him off.

And so a pattern emerged in the sexual exploration of Derek Hale.

* * *

He was supposed to meet Lydia later to talk about the goblin problem, but it was pouring down rain and he cut his run short. He went in through the backdoor and was immediately assaulted with the scent of woman—two women, specifically.

He slipped upstairs and down the hallway to the closed door.

Through the keyhole, he could see them. Allison was tied up on the bench, her ass sticking up in the air, arms tied above her head, ankles bound, wearing nothing but a pair of thigh-high stockings. She looked wrecked and gorgeous and calm.

* * *

Allison had talked to him about it some. It was a shock to Derek that _he_ was the one she came to after everything with Gerard, her mother, Erica and Boyd. She needed to talk about Kate, about her family, and how they kept manipulating her, but how she kind of liked it in a twisted way. At first Derek pretended not to understand, but he did. He understood better than she knew. So he pointed her in the right direction.

She tried a dom she met in a BDSM club, but it didn't work out.

She tried with Scott, both when they were off-again and on-again, but he couldn't give her what she needed either.

Enter Lydia.

* * *

Derek grew aroused as Lydia, in heels and a black corset, pushed a dildo into Allison's pussy. She tugged on Allison's hair, pulling hard enough to make her back arch in a beautiful curve and her breasts push forward.

She draped herself over Allison, whispering in her ear that she was such a good girl. That she had been so good that Lydia was going to let her come.

Derek was never more grateful he didn't change back into jeans after his aborted run. He slid his hand down the front of his track pants and grabbed his cock, already hard from the peep show, and pumped it in time with Lydia's pace as she fucked the toy into Allison.

“Come any time, love,” Derek heard Lydia whisper.

Allison fell apart shortly thereafter, and like a trigger Derek tensed and spilled into his hand.

He allowed himself a couple deep breaths before he crept silently down the stairs.

* * *

5.

_does the cute hipster in the kitchen belong to you?_

Derek closes his eyes, reminding himself that it’s Laura’s job as the older sibling to be excruciatingly annoying.

_if not i want to bang those glasses off his face_

He throws the phone on the bed and stalks into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as he crosses his arms over his chest. Stiles is sitting at the kitchen table, foot tapping restlessly against the leg of the chair while he frowns at an open book. His fingers drum some random pattern against the rim of his black frames.

“Valkyries are the _worst_ ,” Stiles says without looking up. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met one, Laura, but even if you have, it can’t be said often enough.”

Laura hums, smiling innocently at Derek. He knows she’s only needling him, but then Laura always knew which buttons to push. When it comes to Stiles, everything is a button to push.

“Don’t believe them if they say they’re only bringing soldiers who died in battle to Valhalla. I mean, unless a rapidly healing alpha werewolf counts as a dead soldier, then I suppose they were telling the truth.”

“Hm,” Laura says again, smile growing. “So, what’d you do?”

“Drove a magic wand through her chest.” Stiles shrugs. “Wasn’t gonna let Valhalla suffer through eternity with McBroodyWolf.”

Laura laughs, delighted, before growing suddenly serious. “Hey, that’s my brother, you know.”

Stiles looks up, sheepish, and opens his mouth to speak when he sees Derek and stops, narrows his eyes and says, “No.”

Derek frowns. “No, what?”

“Just no.” Stiles waves his hand at him. “You’ve used your shirtless quota for the month.”

“You used your smartass remark quota within the first hour, so I think we’re even.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “So, what’s up, Rainier Wolfcastle?”

Derek is about two seconds from changing his mind until Stiles grins crookedly.

“Bedroom,” Derek says, nodding his head and ignoring Laura’s shaking shoulders.

Stiles gets to his feet while making a face. “Wow, as always, I’m extremely impressed by your wooing skills.”

“The wooing phase is over.”

“Can I put in a formal complaint on that?”

Derek kicks the bedroom door shut behind them and ignores Laura’s loud complaints about rudeness and guests. He also ignores Stiles asking him what got into him all of a sudden, like they’ve never decided to fuck in the middle of the day before.

Granted, it’s been a while, but that’s all the more reason to start again.

Derek grabs Stiles mid-speech and kisses him roughly, running his thumb across Stiles’ jaw. Sweat is cooling on Derek’s skin from his earlier workout, raising goosebumps in the wake of Stiles’ fingers. Stiles smiles against his lips. That’s one thing Derek has always found appealing in a strange way about having sex with Stiles: how Stiles reacts to everything with his mouth. There are little half-smiles, just the barest hint of tugging at the corners, and full-out wicked grins.

The best might be when his lips are parted – too far gone to do anything else.

He only takes a moment to think about this, nipping at Stiles’ bottom lip, before pushing Stiles down on the bed to climb on top of him with intent.

They fuck like they don’t have any practice (when, usually, this is the one thing they know how to do in the vast sea of everything they suck at). The rhythm is off and a little clumsy as Derek fucks into him, fast and unrestrained, and Stiles rolls his hips to meet him. But it works anyway, with Stiles’ fingers digging into his back and his legs wrapped around Derek’s hips.

 

Stiles makes content little moans, grinning up at him like he’s particularly pleased with the latest hitch of his hips. And when he reaches out and grabs Derek’s hand, linking their fingers, Derek has to look away for a moment, dropping his gaze to study the way Stiles takes his cock. He pushes Stiles upwards on the bed with every thrust and Stiles laughs, shaky and giddy, before his head bangs into the headboard.

Derek buries his face into Stiles’ neck to hide the curve of his lips, but the puff of air that escapes him and the shake of his shoulders probably give him away.

And he does fuck Stiles’ glasses off his face, technically. Stiles flails his arms so hard when he comes that he knocks them onto the floor, but it counts.

* * *

6.

Isaac woke the same way he’d fallen asleep; with a cock in his mouth.

He rubbed his cheek against his master’s thigh where he laid, moaning. It was instinctive to begin suckling and once he started, he couldn’t stop. This was what he lived for; his master’s taste, the weight of his cock, the way it hardened and lengthened under his ministrations. Nothing compared to the completion, the purpose he felt with his master in his mouth.

A hand in his hair made him open his eyes and look up to see his master smirking down at him. Isaac felt pressure on the back of his head, encouraging him to take the cock deeper. He did so with a happy moan, eyes closing back as he lifted his head to serve his master properly.

His master sighed, petting him. “That’s right, baby,” he said, voice deep and sleep-rough. “God, I love waking up to your mouth.”

The praise made him hot all over, his skin tingling with it, filling him with pride. He tried to speed up his movements, eager to please, but his master stopped him.

“Slowly, baby,” he ordered. He gripped Isaac’s hair tightly, guiding him. “Let me enjoy you.”

The pace was torture but Isaac was obedient. He dragged his mouth slowly up, pausing to suckle the head before sinking back down. His master's grip had only just relaxed, petting Isaac as he was serviced, when the bedroom door flew open.

Isaac tensed, whining around his mouthful but his master, already sitting up on an elbow, shushed him. He pushed Isaac's head down, hips jerking up to fuck his throat deeply, choking him; reassurance.

“It’s okay, sweetling,” Master said as Isaac relaxed against the bed again. “Keep going.”

Isaac did, finding his master’s rhythm again. He heard a sigh behind him and then his pack-mate, Lydia, said, “God, you’re a sick fuck.”

His master began petting him again. “You knew what you were walking into,” he replied. “Maybe next time you’ll knock.”

“Would you have stopped?”

“No.”

She sighed. “You were supposed to be downstairs an hour ago, Derek. We have things to discuss; things that specifically require an Alpha’s attention.”

“It can wait.” Master’s tone was dismissive. “Isaac just woke up.”

“Are you fucking serious?” She hissed. “We’re in a precarious position, we can’t afford to accommodate your fucked up priorities.”

His master gave a low warning growl, the sound vibrating through the entire room, and Lydia fell silent.

This was the way it always was with them. Lydia pushed and Derek had to push back until she stopped; it was the only way she would accept him as Alpha. She constantly made him prove himself and while his master accepted that, it didn’t mean he liked it.

Alphas never liked to be challenged.

Lydia finally conceded. “Five minutes,” she said. “And then I’m dragging you out of that bed, Derek. You don’t have time to fuck your _toy_ all day.”

The door slamming closed was accompanied by another growl, this one full of anger and frustration. The hand in Isaac’s hair tightened and then his master held him still as he began to fuck his mouth again but this time he didn’t stop after a few thrusts. He took Isaac’s mouth, choking him again and again, and Isaac relaxed, letting him. This was what his master needed after Lydia’s pushing - total submission – and Isaac was happy to give it. His purpose was to serve the Alpha, to give what was needed.

“Don’t swallow,” Master ordered just before he spurted into Isaac’s mouth and Isaac obeyed. He kept the release on his tongue until he was pulled up and their lips pressed together.

They kissed slow, deep, pushing the come back and forth until it was long gone, only the taste remaining. His master gave a pleased rumble, finally pulling away. A hand wrapped around Isaac’s erection.

“What do good boys say, Isaac?” His master asked as his hand began to move.

Isaac moaned, falling forward to whisper in his ear, “thank you, big brother.”

* * *

7.

Her nametag read “Allison” and it suited her. Bouncy curls and deep dimples that she couldn’t hide to save her life because she smiled all the time. She was polite and meticulous, always professional.

It drove Derek crazy.

One morning he forgot something and rushed back into his room but stopped at the sight of the maid bent over his tub, scrubbing it out.

Wearing thigh-high stockings with an honest-to-god garter belt. 

Who fucking _did_ that anymore?

The door slammed closed and she jumped. Derek apologized for scaring her, grabbed his belongings and left a bigger than normal tip that day.

His first day.

Four days later his trip was ending and she arrived to clean his room. He was checking out late, meetings done, so he didn’t have to rush off.

She didn’t come alone today, though, a bored looking blonde with her. She gave Derek an appraising look on her way in and disappeared with the brunette into the bathroom.

Derek puttered around the room for a bit, gathering up the last of his things. The door to the bathroom was closed most of the way but he could hear muffled talking between the two maids.

He could hear breathy moans, like someone was trying _so_ hard to be quiet drifting out. He moved closer and could hear something rhythmic and familiar.

He crept closer and caught an angle of the bathroom in the mirror through the ajar door. The blonde had Allison on the sink with her legs spread. Her panties were around one ankle and the blonde was moving two fingers in and out of Allison’s pussy slowly.

As if she could feel him the blonde met Derek’s eyes in the mirror and smirked.

“She’s ready for you,” she announced and stepped back. Allison let out a strangled moan.

Derek pushed the door open and felt his cock throb in his suddenly-too-tight pants.

“Allison’s been waiting for this all week,” the blonde said. “Thought I’d move things along.”

“ _Erica_!” Allison sputtered. She tried to close her legs and cover herself up but Derek stepped forward.

“Is that true?” He asked, voice low and eyes burning. Allison swallowed hard and nodded. Derek felt a hand snake around his waist and start working on his belt and button. His pants were around his ankles in seconds, his underwear close behind.

Allison’s eyes widened when she watched his thick, hard cock slap against his belly but she reached forward and took it in one hand while she licked the palm of her other and started stroking him.

“Need you in me. Wanted you all fucking week,” she muttered as she jerked him. Her hand was small but fit around him like a tight glove. Derek could see her red pussy, slick from her own arousal and whatever else Erica’d done to her. 

Allison pulled Derek forward and wasted no time guiding Derek’s cock into her. They both groaned at the feeling--her hot and tight, him thick and full. It was all incredibly perfect--the angle, the height of the sink, the way Allison’s legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him in with her heels digging into his ass.

Erica joined them by pulling Allison’s plain blue maid’s uniform open and pushed her lacy bra down so she could suck on Allison’s perfect, perky nipples. Allison gasped and squeezed around Derek.

His thrusts were already falling out of rhythm and he could feel his balls tightening up. He ground out as much as he struggled for control so Erica moved one of her hands between them and worked Allison’s clit between her deft fingers.

Allison clenched around him more and more until she was clutching at his arm with one hand and pulling Erica’s hair with the other. Derek felt her climax, then quickly pulled out and stroked himself just twice before he came all over her abdomen. 

Erica ran her finger through the mess and sucked it off slowly, staring Derek in the eyes.

His cock twitched.

“Need anymore help with your checkout?” Erica asked with a smirk.

* * *

8.

Stiles throws his keys onto the kitchen table, one hand already working on the knot in his tie. He wonders how the _hell_ his dad got away with not wearing one, when he'd been sheriff.

The house is quiet around him, but the silence is unique in a way that means Derek is home.

He's proved right, when he slips into their bedroom. Derek is propped up against the headboard, a book open and resting against one forearm. He's shirtless. His boxers are slung low over his hips, bunched tight across his crotch, from the way Derek's legs are crossed. He doesn't look up at Stiles, but the smile that quirks at his lips means he's fully aware of Stiles' presence.

"Hey you."

"How was your day?" Derek replies, still not looking up. He flips a page

Stiles doesn't answer. Instead, he makes a point of stripping, the fabric rustling and finally getting Derek's attention.

Derek blinks, and his eyes darken when Stiles works the last button free, shrugging the brown uniform shirt onto the floor. Derek's legs uncross, almost without him seeming to realize it.

The white wife beater Stiles is wearing is sweat soaked from the summer heat. It clings, hot and wet, smelling strongly even to Stiles, to the private skin beneath his arms. It does nothing to hide the edges of the frilly red bra he's wearing underneath, the color muted through the cotton, almost pink.

Derek puts his book down on the night stand. He crawls-- _Jesus_ , Stiles loves this man, even after so many years-- on hands and knees to the edge of the bed. His dick hangs between his thighs, cradled by his boxers, and half hard now.

Stiles licks his lips, lets Derek hook a finger beneath the edge of his belt, to pull him forward.

"What's this?" Derek asks, pressing his face against Stiles' neck, breathing deeply. One of his hands traces the edges of the bra, even as his other hand sets to work at Stiles' belt.

"You like? Been wearing this all day. Just for you." Stiles murmurs, pulling away and letting his momentum pull the belt free from its loops, the buckle still fisted in Derek's hands. The sound it makes is nothing compared to Derek's groan when Stiles steps out of the restricting cloth of his pants.

"Jesus Stiles."

The panties are white, decorated with little red stars, and distorted from where Stiles' own dick is starting to harden. They're framed by bright red-- to match the bra-- stockings. They hug his thighs, framing his crotch like a fucking landing strip.

Stiles almost hadn't had the courage to put them on that morning. He's glad he did.

Derek traces a thumb across the across the thin strip of bare skin between the edges of the panties and the stockings, and then in a move almost too fast for Stiles to comprehend, Derek is reversing their positions. Stiles ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress with Derek between his thighs.

Derek leans down, catches the edge of Stiles white wife beater with his teeth, lifting it a few inches, before his hands take over. Stiles obligingly lifts his arms so the shirt can slide off easily.

When Derek settles back down, he pauses only long enough to lick a damp line down Stiles' right side, tasting the salty sweaty skin there, and then Derek's on his knees. He's mouthing at Stiles' dick through the white fabric of the panties, and it it's...fuck, it's intense. He's not even fully fucking naked yet, but Stiles is already fighting not to buck his hips helplessly against Derek's face.

"Walked around at work-- _fuck Derek_ \-- fucking arrested people today," Stiles gasps, fisting his hands in Derek's hair to keep his mouth on Stiles' dick, "wearing a bra and panties. For-- _jesus. oh my god_ \-- for _you_ , asshole."

Derek hums, says "so sexy," and pulls back, licking his lips. He grabs Stiles' hips and hikes him further up the bed, before settling on top of him. One of his hands cups across Stiles chest, flicking at his nipples through the bra. Stiles arches his back, bares his throat.

"Gonna fuck you Stiles. Fuck you like a girl, on your back. 'S what happens when you wear shit like this," Derek growls.

And Stiles...Stiles is totally on board with that.

* * *

9.

"That's the last of them," Allison says, tone hard and steely despite the flutter of nerves that set her whole body on fire, that made her tingle, kiss of adrenaline fervor in the rose of her cheeks, the gasp of her breath. Nevertheless she straightens her back, squares her shoulders, sets her jaw and meets her grandfather's gaze head on as she rattles off the rest of the report, the statistics, the casualties, what they need to stock up on, who they need to mark off as lost.

"Very well done, Allison," she is told, and her just now, just a second, a flowering of pride deep in her chest.

She almost smiles. Instead, a perfunctory nod. "If that's all--"

A mewling from their feet, a feral wild growling. Her grandfather's boot makes contact with the cranium, but both of them know that means nothing, steel-toed though it may be. "Your tranquilizer's ineffective."

Allison frowns. "No," she says. "It took the others out easily. They were twice her size. I tihnk she's fighting it."

"Interesting." A murmur, a hum. "See to it that she's subjugated appropriately. We need her docile for the second phase."

"How--"

"However you see fit."

***

_The way she looks at her is sickening._

_The way she fucks her, even worse._

***

The wolf, known as Erica Reyes pre-bite, bares her teeth at Allison. There is no trace of reason in those stark blue eyes, no rational in her beast-addled brain, no humanity in the way she attempts to crouch before Allison, ready to pounce. (She's seen it once before, how the monster consumes the humanity.) But the wolfsbane flooding her veins makes her movements sluggish, topples her over.

It's almost admirable, the way she shakes herself back, the way she claws for balance. It's kittenish, not lupine.

Neither makes Allison fond of her.

Bitches are often the most unpredictable. Their bites the most potent. They have a primal desire to outlast, to outthink, to one-up them, an illusion of superiority ruling them until they are shown their place. Often a jolt (or a thousand) of electricity does that for any other wolf, but bitches are different.

There's really only one way to speak to them, only one language to make them understand.

She grabs the wolf with leather gloved hands, drags her with one hand over to the room meant specifically for this sort of taming.

***

_She makes a show of it, of wearing the cock with the wide base, the color an ugly red against her pale hips, her corseted waist._

_She makes her lick it, fingers painful in her curls, nails digging in her scalp, makes her gag on it until she's choking, the corners of her eyes teary from the pain, the back of her throat raw from the abuse._

_And then she bends her over._

_"I'm not done with you yet."_

 

***

She stabs her neck with another dose of the wolfsbane, taking a delicious sort of delight in the way she thrashes briefly, fighting the poison, before her body goes the tiniest bit slack.

On any other-- on a _woman_ \-- the wolf's features would be beautiful. Pretty. Vivacious and gregarious, had she a soul. But all Allison sees is the beast, the evil, and always, the question.

Just one question. She doesn't trust she'd ever get the answer, nor that it would satisfy her. Answers to loss are oases in deserts, temporary reprieves to stave the madness of drought.

She yanks the wolf by her hair, shoving her to her knees while she makes quick work of her clothing. Tatters and rags already; it's easy to drag the blade edge of her knife to cut through the fabric. If they glance against skin, deep or shallow, matters little.

Her breasts are pert, her skin voluminously healthy with the glow of, likely, having just fed.

A shiver of pure loathing.

One question.

Was it you?

***

_The first thrust is brutal._

_She cries out, or she thinks she does. She tries not to, but there it is again, splitting her open, tearing at her walls, an unnatural knot that comes at her in a barrage, like a steel ram foreign and terrible._

_The first thrust is brutal._

_Sharp nails scritch shallow cuts on her, a hard tug and her throat is bared but no one touches her there. Instead, a sudden pinch on her nipples, a bolt of voltage that has her yowling._

***

The last leaves her numb.

* * *

10.

“Oh my god how do you guys even do this?!” Allison groaned, struggling valiantly against the urge to just fall forward and start blindly thrusting until this awful _wonderful_ pressure building in her body finally found some sort of outlet. The friction was unbearably good and really the only thing keeping her from coming was the somewhat serious circumstances and the very secret desire to see Scott writhing his way to orgasm on her newly acquired dick.

“Don’t guys just picture gross things or something?” She demanded to know a little desperately.

“I w-wouldn’t recommend it.” Stiles advised, breathless. His expression a mixture of curiosity, intense arousal, and vague horror. Most of his clothes were still on she noticed but then she couldn’t blame him. It’ s not like she didn’t know the benefits of having jeans force your hand just so. His movements were restless, erratic and clearly resentful. It helped. “You aren't exactly an expert and there is a fine line between control and Limp Dick Syndrome using that method.”

Gasping little “ _Oh, oh, ohs_!” were Scott’s contribution to the conversation. His eyes were half closed and glowing and even in this form he was stupidly attractive to her. She was enthralled with the way his body curved around hers, thoroughly distracted by the way his breasts rocked and bounced beneath her. She wasn’t sure which was weirder, that they were bigger than hers and there OR, that she just re~ally wanted to get her mouth on them.

“Damnit Stiles!” She forced herself to rear back a bit, wetly sucked her thumb into her mouth.

“Don’t say it.” He whined. The three of them lay sprawled in his bed, having managed to get setup before the worst of it hit and they were doomed to hours of awkward positioning and questionable stains on the living room furniture. There was nothing they could do for the claw marks though. Not a single clue how to explain those.

“I told you so. I said it was better to wait and get the full translation first!” She continued on, ignoring his pleasure-choked protests and trying to dredge up the coordination to keep thrusting and stop her knees from sliding all over the sheets. To keep working Scott’s clit in a firm, steady rhythm. he could take it. He was actually shaking at this point, overheated and so wet she couldn’t help but wince in sympathy.

Trust Stiles to be the one to find the rare magical artifact designed to bring the pack closer together and accidentally trigger it with his particular brand of unintentional genius.

Pack prosperity apparently somehow translated into switching all their genders so Scott could go into heat and instigate a group orgy. The only reason Derek and his pack weren’t taking part was because Stiles managed to ring the room with Mountain Ash and they could control themselves.

Somewhat.

“ _Oh god_!” He was writhing now. She could feel the pressure building, sparking blissful shocks of pleasure through her body. Allison watched, hopelessly turned on, as Stiles frantically mouthed and sucked on Scott’s nipple. Pretty soon he was shaking too, keening helplessly and drooling as he roughly worked himself to orgasm. The wet smack of his fingerfucking rivaling the steady clap of flesh against flesh from her viciously focused thrusts. By the time Stiles brought his hand up to languorously stroke and squeeze himself in primitive feline satisfaction Scott was _there_.

“He’s going to howl! Scott you have to be quiet. Scott!” She didn’t dare stop but--

”Hurry and shut him up Stiles, _shut him up_!” Her muscles burned and shook with the effort to keep control, keep steady. If he howled now the others would have no choice but to answer and there is no guarantee the Ash could keep them safe.

He was slow to react but thankfully still managed to pull Scott into a demanding, greedily sloppy kiss just in time. Just before he clamped down and came, body contracting and dragging Allison hoarsely screaming over the edge with him. Until her vision went white and the three of them shudder and collapse into a pile of tangled limbs and unreasonably happy smiles.

* * *

11.

A/N - I have referenced a world built by another author - I have the author's permission to do so, but I've left the reference out until reveals. I also have the author's permission for this. if you need more info, let me know

 

Miss Martin studied rope bondage at the Lotus house in Tokyo. When Stiles hears that she’s going to be teaching his class on the same topic, he breaks out in a bit of a sweat. It’s no secret that nearly all the subs at his pleasure house have an unrequited crush on the red-headed Domme. Stiles is no exception. Miss Martin wears thigh-high stockings and a garter belt and her skirts are often short enough that at some point the sway of her hips will cause them to ride up just a little and they are all treated to the sight of her milky white thighs encased in the black lace she favors.

When she steps into the classroom, her red hair like hot lava around her shoulders, she looks over each of them with her green-flinted gaze. Stiles shivers a bit.

She features heavily in all of his _personal time_.

“I’m sure you’ve all studied the syllabus. We’re working on rope bondage today. For those of you that don’t know, I hold a Four Knot distinction in the art, granted to me by the Mistress of the Lotus house.”

Stiles hears some of the students gasp in surprise and awe. Miss Martin doesn’t react to their open and wide faces, but merely snaps her fingers at the door.

“Today, my sub, Miss Argent, of house La Petite Mort, will be assisting me.”

Miss Argent is Miss Martin’s perfect dark mirror. Both of them with creamy white skin but Miss Argent’s hair is dark and glossy to Miss Martin’s fiery red. Miss Martin holds out her hand expectantly and as Miss Argent steps forward, Miss Martin slides her hand up and over Miss Argents arm, across her shoulder and pulls her in close. Miss Argent tucks herself into Miss Martin tightly, fitting in seamlessly.

Stiles can’t help but sigh. He dreams of having a Domme like Miss Martin someday.

“For a slight change, Miss Argent will be showcasing the rope bondage I’d like to go over, using me as her subject.” Miss Martin smiles wryly. “Rest assured, class, I have taught her well.”

Stiles feels his mouth go dry. To see a Domme trust her Sub so implicitly, so completely is incredible. Miss Martin partially disrobes, taking off her long black duster and then she presents the back of her tightly laced half corset to Miss Argent who makes quick work of loosening the laces. Miss Martin shimmies out of her miniskirt and suddenly she stands before them in her bra, panties and garter belts, looking fierce and completely at east.

Miss Argent pulls a long length of rope from the kit bag under the teacher’s desk and as she starts to wind it, Miss Martin lectures the class.

“Watch how she wraps, class. She starts one-third of the way into the length, wrapping it just above my breasts. She pulls it tautly but not tightly. You can see how it cuts into the flesh but it doesn’t harm me. She also doesn’t drag it across me as she works. You don't want to be on the giving or receiving end of rope burn, unless previously agreed to in your contract with your Doms.”

Miss Argent deftly knots the rope a few times, twisting and turning it around Miss Martin’s pale, silky flesh. The rope cuts in gloriously and while it turns the skin pink in places, it’s clearly not hurting her.

Anymore than she is willing to be hurt.

“Miss Argent has worked several intricate knots into the bondage. Please note where she has located them. Under my right breast, making the flesh pop up sharper. Under my left armpit so that I can rest my arm easily, and in between my shoulder blades.”

Stiles is confused about it until Miss Argent assists Miss Martin in lying down, on her back, on the desk. The placement of the knot causes Miss Martin to arch her back around it, displaying her beautifully across the desk.

Splayed over the desk, trussed up in the harsh rope, on display for the class, Miss Martin beckons her sub over with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you being tied up is only for subs,” she breathes, as Miss Argent runs her hands over the pristine expanse of Miss Martin’s chest and Miss Martin licks her lips as Miss Argent leans over her. “It can be very invigorating.”

* * *

12.

They're curled together in the overstuffed leather chair Isaac dragged into the loft from some dump site. They're still hard, cocks slick with pre-cum, bodies slick with sweat.

Derek's dick is wet from saliva as well, because, until a few minutes before, Stiles was on the floor between his splayed thighs, sucking it passionately but slowly, just as he was rubbing his own cock slowly, wanting to drag out their second orgasms of the night.

But, then, Derek nudged his head back and Stiles pulled off with a slow pop, panting for air, face flushed, eyes glazed. He licked his lips and Derek reached down and tugged him up, half onto him, draped across him.

The chair is wide enough for them both to crowd onto it, and, really, why would Stiles want to be separate from that insanely gorgeous body? The closer they are, the better, which is why they always ignore the huge, modular couch.

Sex between them is usually rough, fast. They squeeze in moments between research, fighting and running for their lives. A few kisses, a few hard caresses, and most of the time they don't even get naked, just open enough clothes and pull them aside or down to get at heated flesh. Then Stiles is on his back or his elbows and knees and the prep is sloppy and Derek is in him, thrusting fast as if they're in a race. It hurts but in that hurts so good kind of way, so he doesn't mind the lingering ache in his ass.

Derek always makes sure he comes, often twice, because, teenager.

But, sometimes--rarely--they're not running from something or fighting the latest thing to creep into the new hellmouth, as Stiles likes to call it, and they take their time. They undress each other and caress each other and kiss each other all over, and Derek spends twenty minutes opening him up with lubed fingers until he's out of his mind and they're both past the point of readiness.

And the sex is oddly tender, nothing hurried, nothing desperate.

This night saw them in Derek's bed for the first hour, making love, because how could you call it anything else when the kisses are soft, the words are full of caring, the touches are slow and tender? And, after amazing orgasms and a lot of hard breathing and a few growls at the intensity of the pleasure reverberating through them, Stiles got up to get a drink and Derek trailed after him. When Stiles came out of the kitchen, Derek was sprawled on the chair, slowly jacking his cock, and Stiles grinned and strolled towards him, only to drop to his knees between those trembling yet hard as rock thighs.

But, now...Now is different even from that, because they've stopped in the middle and Derek is resting his head on Stiles' shoulder and caressing his cheek, dragging one finger over the lips that so recently were around his dick, and Stiles aches with longing.

The sweetness of those touches almost hurts, but he craves that feeling, and all he can do is catch Derek's hand in his and bring his knuckles to his lips for a kiss that may be a declaration of something they never talk about.

Derek moans softly into his ear. Stiles shivers and kisses him again.

They don't move from the chair. They don't resume the blowjob or start something else. Their cocks soften, but neither seems to care. Slowly their heads turn, their lips find each others, and they kiss so tenderly.

And, when they part, there's something shining in Derek's eyes and he mouths the words because he still has trouble talking, but he still says it first.

Love you.

End

* * *

13.

When Derek’s penis first sees (and isn't that a relative term, hah! but the brain sends him messages, so he knows) another dick that’s not one of the pack, he gets really fucking confused.

They're at some grimy gas station, god knows where, and Derek’s dick (whom we'll call Big D, because duh), having been trapped in suffocating circumstances with the low-hangers and Derek's sweaty, hairy thighs, is just happy to be getting some air.

So there's Big D, finally breathing free, finally letting go of all the pressure building up, loving the way it splatters against the porcelain, makes some of the dirt break apart and slide down to the drain, and then he sees him. Or he doesn't, but Derek must glance over at the dude who breaks all urinal etiquette rules and stands _right. next. to. Derek._ even though all the other urinals are empty. (He's wearing leather boots and jacket, ratty jeans, and smells like motor oil and whiskey. In hindsight, Big D will laugh about this, often.)

This other dick is not like Big D. And Big D realizes that Derek, or his brain, had already known about this, had even seen others, as they now flash through a collective knowledge, that Big D didn't have before. He gets pissed, and twitches in Derek’s hand, making Derek swear under his breath. It should probably be said now: Big D can be a bit – sorry, _lot_ – of a dick sometimes. Derek swears, the guy looks over at Derek, and Derek doesn't want any issues, already having some controlling his wolf inside, so Big D gets a shakedown, a rough shove, and they leave.

And Big D is back to being trapped inside of Derek’s too-tight jeans, thinking about the other dick. The way he is now, all snug, a seam pressing just above his root, he supposes he feels okay, but Big D attributes much of that to his built-in blanket, the foreskin, his very own personal snuggie. (If snuggies fit perfectly and didn't leave lint everywhere.) Big D really fucking hated lint. But this other cock, it didn't have a foreskin, and damn, if that’s not an interesting thought. So Big D keeps thinking about it, drawing all the blood it can from the brain, all the fucking knowledge the brain’s been keeping from him, that asshole- sorry, the actual asshole has very little to do with this, and we shouldn't be so crass.

So the brain is a jerk and Big D, with all his dick-knowledge flashing through right now, could really go for a jerk or two from Derek’s left hand. It’s so fascinating, thinking about other dicks now, foreskins and not, and how they might fit, the way Big D is used to thinking about pussies, Kate especially, but he knows that’s not something they’ll talk about again. And maybe it _is_ time for a change of scenery, so other dicks seem like a good place to start.

Big D continues his thinking, all the way to wherever their destination is, he doesn't care, just knows that he can hear Derek and Laura talking beyond the confines of the tight pants, and that Derek waits until she’s gone (her pussy never interested them, something about societal norms Big D didn't get, whatever) to shove his jeans down quickly and finally fucking pull Big D out again.

Derek grips him hard with his left hand, the right one slipping down to tug on the boys and yeah, they’re in business. The brain gives up all control, shutting off but for the minimal images sent down, this time of strong hands pushing and tugging and of another cock, the one Big D remembers from the gas station. Leftie gives Big D just the right amount of pressure, tugging the foreskin back and forth, like some fucked up breathplay every time it covers Big D up, so tight now that he’s as hard as he can be. He loves it this way, loves the way Leftie speeds up just how he likes it, gets tighter and tighter, and the way the balls work so well with him, getting all nice and tight right up til he’s spurting up and all over Derek’s jeans (that’ll show ‘em!), feeling good.

After that, Big D and Derek don’t give much thought to other dicks for a while, they get busy...until Big D meets Little S (who hates the name), but that’s a story for another time.

* * *

14.

Life insurance could only go so far when you had eight people to bury, both land and inheritance tax to pay, an uncle who needs long-term care with no health insurance ( because why would you need it when you were a _werewolf_ ), and the only two survivors had no source of income. Plus, New York was an expensive city to live. So, Laura went looking for work, but leaving Beacon Hills before she could get her diploma limited her even further in a large town where unemployment was high.

It wasn't until she was sitting in a small, run-down coffee shop, where the six tables looked like they dated back to the sixties, that Laura saw an answer to her income dilemma, in the form of an ad in a free classified publication.

Sure working in a peep show was not Laura’s ideal way to provide for her and Derek, but the hours were on _her_ time and she was paid cash daily. It was also surprisingly easy enough to get hired on, after going through an odd “orientation” that included an “example” of what some of the performers did in their show.

It really was pathetic. The woman was classic example of a worn down stripper. She performed her dance act, on the other side of the glass, to a mindless pop song that left no illusion that the singer was talking about sex. But, it wasn't the song, or her overused choppy dance routine that Laura thought pitiful. It was the women herself. Her eyes. Red rimmed and soulless. If the woman were a wolf she'd be Omega.

But, Laura was strong. She was an Alpha. And knew the power of her sexuality.

Using her sensuality she quickly _owned_ her show. At first she did private dances. She choose music with provocative rhythms and unclothed with teasing movements. Then she added more libidinous acts to her show.

Sometimes she'd wear a high-priced looking business suit, complete with tight pinstripe skirt and thigh highs with lace peeking from the hem, fingering herself under her skirt. Times like this she'd talk aggressively about how she will make her assist lick her clit from under her desk.

Other times she'll dress in school girl plaid, and uses a sucker like she was practicing her oral skills in a bedroom mirror, so tempting and innocent. Touching herself as if she was learning the secrets of her body.

Or a lonely house wife draped in lingerie, screwing herself with a dildo, while telling her 'husband' how it felt over the phone. How much she needed it to be his cock, stretching her pussy and coming deep.

And sometimes, she’d wear nothing but a pair of colorful heals and an off- the-shoulder top, masturbating with a vibrator. Letting the onlooker insert his own desires.

No matter what roll Laura played, she was the one in control of the fantasy, granting the illusion of a voyeur looking into private moments. Giving only what she wanted to give, leaving the nameless eyes behind the glass watching with want and need. Longing but could never reach, never have anything more than the glimpses she gave.

She was in control of the sex, of the power.

She was the Alpha.

* * *

15.

Erica turned the key in the lock and let herself into the Alpha’s home. She was supposed to be checking up on his mate. The Omega could be a little scattered when Derek wasn’t around. 

Well, okay. No. Stiles was scattered whether Derek was around or not. Had been since they were in high school. It’s just that now, he has a mate to keep him grounded and remind him to eat. A job that fell to Erica this month while Derek was away and incommunicado for 22 hours of the day.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. Every day that she’d been here, Stiles -- or his voice anyway -- had met her at the door as he worked away in the study or kitchen. Scenting the air, she tried to determine where he was.

“Stiles?” she called out, making her way through the living room and following the strongest scent to the stairs. “Stiles, are you here?”

His scent got stronger as she walked up the stairs, and then the silence was broken by a desperate moan. Running up the stairs and down the hall, she followed the sounds and Stiles’ scent as it got heavier. A mewling whine stopped her right outside the door, and she suddenly recognized what was woven tightly through the scent she’d been following.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she breathed. “He’s in heat! God _damn it_ , Derek!”

Fumbling for her phone, she retreated to the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall, mashing the speed dial for the Alpha and praying it was in the window when he could actually answer.

“He’s in fucking _heat, Derek!_ ,” she snarled when the line connected. “What the _fuck_ am I supposed to do with that?!”

There was cursing and growls from the other end as Derek seemed to process her words. Then, “Help him,” and dead air. 

“‘Help him’,” she snarled, banging the back of her head against the wall. “God _damn it_!” 

Getting up, she walked back to the bedroom and yanked open the door. Her breath caught at the sight of Stiles spread out on the bed, two fingers thrusting deep in his ass and the other pulling at his cock as he writhed and moaned. His eyes glittered in the light from the hall when he turned his head to look at her.

“E-Erica?” he whined, reaching for her. “Erica, I -- I need --”

“Shhh,” she said, crossing the room and kneeling next to him. She wiped at the sweat on his forehead.

“So hot,” he moaned. “Where -- Where’s Der...” His words turned to a high-pitched whine as he twisted and pulled at his cock again.

“He’s not here,” she replied, her hands fluttering over Stiles’ naked torso. “He told me to help you through this.” Stiles’ moans were turning desperate and his breath came in harsh pants. Erica bit her lip. “What can I do, Stiles? What do you need?”

“I -- I --” Stiles moaned and squirmed and then grabbed Erica’s hand, pulling it down past his balls and replacing his fingers with hers. “ _Please_ , Erica!”

Erica gasped as her fingers were engulfed in heat and the noises Stiles made when she shifted so that her wrist wasn’t so bent went straight to her core. She could feel her body responding to Stiles, and her moans soon mingled with his. Before long, she was thrusting against the air, looking for friction of her own. 

“You, too,” Stiles panted, thrusting his hips and speeding the hand on his cock. “Pants -- pants off. I want --”

Erica gasped and then shook her head. Derek said help, yes; but there were some liberties she wasn’t willing to take. Pulling her panties from under her skirt with one hand, she lay down next to him and plunged her fingers deep into her own heat, pulling out of Stiles as she pushed into herself. 

Twisting her fingers, she flicked her thumb back and forth over her clit and arched her back for a better angle. Speeding her hands, she leaned over and licked a hot stripe up Stiles’ cock from root to tip, letting the taste of him settle on her tongue and spur her on.

With a growling scream, Stiles’ back arched off the bed as he covered his belly with come. Erica tightened around her fingers and wailed as she climaxed herself.

* * *

16.

He was going to kill Erica.

 _It’ll make him crazy_ , Erica’s silky voice mimicked – no, mocked – in his head. _Trust me._

Yeah, trust the she-wolf who found it amusing that her alpha was completely tail over snout for the awkward human member of their pack. He should have remembered Erica was the wolf-equivalent of the devil in lipstick and high heels.

And, really, he should have listened to his own instincts and gone with black instead of red. But Erica had insisted red was the way to go. _Go red and Stiles will go wild_ , she had said with a wink. _Guaran-damn-teed._

Derek shifted on Stiles’ bed. Guaran-damn- _nothing_. Because Stiles was standing just inside the doorway of his bedroom, _gaping at him._ Derek watched his mouth open and then close, no words spilling out. 

This couldn’t be good. Stiles was _never_ speechless. The kid talked even in his sleep.

Derek crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious and a whole lot ridiculous. Fucking Erica. 

He frowned. “So. Are you going to _say_ something?” he rumbled, his tone definitely a dare. Because Stiles fucking thrived on dares.

Stiles didn’t take his eyes off Derek as he pushed the door to his bedroom closed. “Uh...hhnnnggg,” Stiles attempted, his tongue sweeping sinfully over his bottom lip.

He was taken by surprise mid-eyeroll when Stiles launched himself at Derek, scrambling up into his lap, his mouth clamping eagerly onto Derek’s, his hands running almost reverently over the netting covering Derek’s legs.

“ _So, so hot_ ,” Stiles murmured against his lips. He rucked Derek’s t-shirt up, yanking it up and off, then pulled at the waistband of Derek’s purposefully chosen briefs. (He was a boxer-brief guy usually but Erica had said briefs would be better with the stockings and so Derek had broken down and bought a pair of briefs just for this purpose.)

“Tell me you’re gonna fuck me with those on,” Stiles said, his arousal showing clearly in the glazed and blown-wide pupils of his ridiculously beautiful amber eyes, not to mention the very obvious bulge in his jeans.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You’re kinky, Stilinski,” he teased.

Stiles huffed out a laugh. “Says the man in my bed wearing red fishnet stockings.”

Stiles shuffled off Derek’s lap and quickly shed his clothes. Then he scrambled toward the bedside table, almost face-planting into the carpet on the way, to get the lube Derek knew he kept in the drawer there. Then he was yanking Derek’s briefs down and off, flinging them carelessly toward his desk so that Derek was left with only the stockings on.

He watched as Stiles squeezed a liberal amount of lube into his palm, rubbed his palms together to warm it up a little, then slid his hands over Derek’s dick (which was now standing very much at attention) to coat it. Derek barely had a chance to catch his breath before Stiles was sinking down on him, his hole tight and hot, stretching around Derek as he basically impaled himself on Derek’s cock.

“Fucking _hell_ , Stiles.” 

Stiles flashed a cocky grin through the grimace. “Couldn’t wait,” he explained breathlessly. “Now fuck me."

Derek didn’t have to be told twice. He thrust up into Stiles, jabbing his cock into him as Stiles rocked his hips down to meet Derek’s thrusts. The pace was urgent, desperate, the build up to ecstasy quick. Derek only managed to tug at Stiles’ eager and leaking cock a few times before he found himself tumbling over the edge, biting down hard on his lip as he filled Stiles with his release. Stiles quickly tumbled after him, spurting hot and messy all over Derek’s chest.

Derek fell back onto the bed with a shudder, Stiles crashing on top of him.

“Fuck,” Stiles murmured against his neck, his lips warm and sticky. “That was hot.”

Derek let his eyes roll back into their usual place and attempted to steady his breath.

Maybe Erica knew what she was talking about, after all, he thought.

* * *


	6. Group B - No Warnings or Pairings

17.

Stiles just wanted to try it.

Derek wasn’t due back for a few hours and wouldn’t it be a sexy surprise for him to walk in their bedroom and find Stiles trussed up naked, waiting and open, like some kind of fantasy sex slave? The thought of being tied, wrists bound, legs splayed, had Stiles half-hard in his jeans before he even made it to the hardware store.

He bought a lot of rope.

The problem was, well, it was difficult to tie yourself up. Stiles thought about texting Scott, but then realized it was a violation of the bro-code to ask your friend to help with your kinky fantasies.

Stiles needed a better plan.

It turned out that a vial of pilfered magical oil and a little belief went a long way.

Stiles’ wrists are bound, pulled taut above his head. His fingers twitch helplessly as the rope coils through the slats in the headboard causing a pleasurable stretch in his shoulders.

“That’s good,” he pants.

The rope quivers, pleased, before it slides down Stiles’ arms.

The rope feels _amazing_ trailing over his chest, brushing his nipples, tickling his navel. He’s hard already, gasping from the sensations as it twines around his thighs pulling them apart. His hips ache with the strain of being tugged so wide. He feels vulnerable and _good_. This is exactly what he wanted. His body thrums with the anticipation of Derek finding him like this, of Derek taking advantage, eating him out, sucking his dick, and fucking him until he is wrecked and begging.

“Yes,” he hisses as the rope tightens around his ankles, “right there.”

The rope ties off on the bed frame and Stiles plans to wait out Derek’s return, relax into the stretch of his muscles and the feel of the rope on his skin.

But the rope is restless, teasing along Stiles’ body, and Stiles begins to think he may have been a little overzealous with the oil.

“That’s enough,” he says, as the rope slides along his lips. “Seriously.”

But the rope dives into his mouth, pushes between his teeth, gags him, while another piece loops tight around the base of his dick and an end brushes over his exposed hole. Stiles thrashes for a moment, but the rope holds fast. He lets out a muffled moan when it pushes into him. It’s not near as thick as Derek’s cock, but it still feels incredible, rough and unslicked, pumping in and out. Stiles is hard, dripping pre-come against his stomach as the rope fucks him slowly.

That’s how Derek finds him.

Stiles manages to twist his neck to see Derek standing over him, mouth open, eyes large. A trickle of sweat slides down Stiles’ temple as the rope pushes in a little harder, sharper. Stiles arches into it despite the coils wrapped around his torso holding him down, leaving red stripes across his chest.

Derek licks his lips. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nods vigorously, the rope heavy on his tongue.

Derek’s eyes darken with lust and _that_ is the expression Stiles wanted when this idea formed in his head.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks again, the bed dipping as he climbs in.

The rope twists inside of Stiles and he moans low in answer.

Derek kneels between Stiles’ spread thighs and watches, rapt, as the rope continues its relentless thrusts, pushing harder now, deeper. Stiles thinks it knows it has an audience because it is fucking him in earnest, becoming thicker, stretching him open, unerringly hitting his prostate.

“You look amazing. Fuck! Look at you taking it.”

Stiles hears the rustle of Derek’s clothing, the _snick-snick_ of his zipper, then the rhythmic sounds of Derek jerking his dick. Derek grabs Stiles’ knee and the touch burns, feels amazing in contrast to the rope around him, in him. Stiles’ pleasure is ratcheting higher, and he whines because the rope is circled tight around his dick.

He _needs_ to come.

He hears Derek groan, feels the hot splash of Derek’s come. Stiles squirms with need, the rope still fucking him, holding him down, but finally it loosens. Stiles comes with a cry, pleasure washing through him, vision whiting out.

He comes back to Derek petting him, the rope retreating from his mouth, uncoiling from around his body.

“Next time you should wait until I’m here,” Derek says, nuzzling in.

Stiles sighs, sleep pulling at him, feeling the exhaustion of the well-fucked. “So there will be a next time?”

“Yes,” Derek answers. “Definitely.”

* * *

18.

"You ready for more?" Derek asks.

"Mmmm," Stiles moans around Peter's cock.

"Was that a yes?"

"MMM," Stiles moans louder.

"I'd say that's a ‘yes’," offers Peter.

Peter leans over Stiles and pulls his nephew in for a deep kiss. Stiles can see their tongues twining and is shot through with arousal.

Derek eases himself out of Stiles and lies on the bench at the foot of the bed. Stiles grabs the big, black, double-headed dildo from the nightstand and lubes it up.

When he turns around, Peter's face is buried in Derek's ass, Derek's legs thrown over his shoulders, and Stiles can hear the slick sounds of saliva as Peter eats him out.

When Peter sits up, Stiles is struck dumb by the trail of spit that stays connected between his chin and Derek's sloppy, wet asshole. It breaks, and Stiles snaps out of it.

Peter drapes his legs over Derek's thighs so they're nearly ass to ass. Stiles kneels and feeds the dildo into Derek, who groans at the intrusion. The dildo slips in and out with ease, but Derek clenches down on it each time Stiles pulls, as if he's unwilling to let it go.

Eventually, he gets the other end in Peter, and soon, the two men are writhing on the bench together. Their fingers intertwined, they use what little leverage they have to pull themselves together on the dildo.

Stiles retrieves a condom from the nightstand, and kneels back on the floor next to them. It's hard work getting even an extra-large condom to stretch around both of their dicks, but this way no one will pop out prematurely.

After drizzling lube over the condom, he backs toward the bench. It's awkward, for a minute, reaching between his legs to line their dicks up with his loosened hole, maneuvering at a weird angle.

It burns a little, no matter how much they've played recently, toying and fingering him open. But then, when he's past the initial stretch, he relishes the feeling of utter _fullness_.

He plants his hands on Peter and Derek's thighs, using them as leverage to push himself slowly up and down, little presses at first. His own thighs burn with the exertion, so he lets himself sink down. It feels like minutes before he's seated on their laps.

Stiles lets out a drawn out "fuck" when his feet leave the floor.

"Christ, Stiles," Derek says. "I didn't think you'd manage it."

"That's our boy," says Peter.

After another moment, Stiles plants his feet and raises himself halfway off their cocks before slamming back down. The bench shakes with the force of it, and all three of them groan at the sensation. Doing all the work is exhausting, but it stops mattering when Stiles can feel the orgasm building.

 

Peter grabs his cock, stroking him fast and rough as he fucks himself on their dicks. His head falls back, Derek twitches and thrusts up into him, and that's it. Stiles' vision blurs at the edges, his whole body tenses, and he's coming in long streams over everything.

They don't let him rest there, and that's okay because his ass won't be able to handle them much longer. He kneels on the floor by the bench and tears the condom off, dives right in and licks around the heads of both of their dicks. He doesn't care about the latex taste, he just wants their come.

Peter grabs Derek's knees and starts pulling them together. Derek swivels his hips from side to side in contrast to Peter's push-pull motions. Stiles just drools all over their dicks, alternating between one, the other, both, moaning all the while.

Derek comes first, his dick rubbing against Stiles' cheek while Stiles sucks Peter's cock. Stiles switches quickly, swallowing Derek down, but he can feel the side of his face dripping with Derek's jizz.

Derek can't handle much stimulation after he comes, so he moves off the bench and joins Stiles on the floor. Together, they lick up and down Peter's cock, Stiles shoving the dildo into him with rough, uneven thrusts.

 

Stiles' mouth meets Derek's at the head of Peter's dick, and then they basically make out around it. Peter fists his hand in Derek's hair and he comes with a shout, hips coming so high off the bench, the dildo slips out of him.

They're a mess of lube and come when they pile back into bed and Stiles announces, "we're _so_ doing that again."

* * *

19.

"Derek!" Stiles yelled, dropping his backpack on the floor at the foot of Derek's ridiculous spiral staircase. "Come on, I just finished the last test of my high school career. Pander to me!" No response. "Deerrr-eek!"

There wasn't a place in the whole building Stiles could go that Derek wouldn't hear him. He liked yelling though, pushing the boundaries of their relationship, built on equal parts mortal danger, grudging respect and one month of frantic fucking.

"Deeer-ek!" Stiles took the stairs two at a time.

Derek was in his room, hunched on his bed, staring at an array of yellowed photographs.

"Did you hear me come in?" Stiles asked with a grin. Derek didn't look up.

"I heard."

"Whatcha looking at?"

Derek finally glanced up, expression unreadable. "My mother."

Stiles crossed to the bed slowly, but Derek didn't move to hide the pictures – women in fishnets and corsets, in different suggestive poses, singly and in groups, all framed in such a way to turn the viewer into a Voyeur. The dark haired beauty featured in all of them must be Talia Hale. Stiles swallowed. This was officially above his pay grade.

"Um," he said. "Nice pictures?"

Derek snorted. "They're making a coffee table book; a retrospective. My lawyer sent me these."

Derek had a lawyer? Somehow, it was stranger than having a mother who posed for erotica. 

"She looks good. I mean," Stiles hastily backpedaled, "fishnet stockings! Who doesn't love fishnet? Other than fish. Because they get killed—"

Derek reached out and swept up the photos.

"You said something about being pandered to?"

***

Sex with Derek was awesome. Stiles'd had more orgasms in the past month than he'd had in the eighteen years prior, and he'd jerked off _a lot_. But there were times when Derek touched his face or laced their fingers together, that Stiles got the impression that he should take this more seriously, ask about feelings or something. Like now. From his vantage point of the bed, he could see the edge of the folder Derek'd shoved the pictures into, lying on Derek's Goodwill desk. Taunting him. He should leave, but when he shifted his weight, Derek caught his wrist.

"You could stay," Derek said quietly, not meeting his eyes, red creeping into his cheeks.

They hadn't done that before. Stiles settled back into the mattress. Derek slung an arm over his waist and nuzzled his neck, and Stiles' heart lurched in his chest.

***

 

A couple days later, they were making out on Stiles' bed when Stiles unbuttoned Derek's jeans, slid his hands inside, and found—

"Oh my God! Are you wearing fishnets?"

Derek moved off him. "You said you liked them."

"Yeah, but I wasn't expecting – why are you pulling your pants back up?"

He'd barely got a glance. He reached out, and Derek slid off the bed.

"This was a bad idea—"

"Whoa, slow down! It's a great idea! Boyfriend of the year material." The label slipped out, unbidden, but one glance of Derek's flushed cheeks as he slowly pushed his jeans down, baring white underwear and red fishnet stockings convinced him it was more than welcome. Huh. Stiles drooled a little, and Derek's dick strained the fabric of his tiny undies. Derek paused, pantless.

"I'm not really good at this."

"Working for me. I'm just gonna—"

Stiles knelt at Derek's feet and ran his hands over the stockings, mouthed at Derek's cock through his underwear. Derek had really got into it, shaving his legs and everything. Because he thought Stiles would want it. And just like that, Stiles was impossibly hard. He drew Derek's cock out of his underwear and sucked him down. Too fast, gasping and choking. Derek groaned and tried to step back, but Stiles gripped both netted thighs.

"I can't believe you did this for me," he murmured, and sucked at the head of Derek's cock, tongue teasing the foreskin. Derek let out a guttural groan and fucked Stiles' mouth, losing complete control when Stiles tangled his fingers in the netting and let go, the loud snap driving Derek even further forward, hitting the back of Stiles' throat and coming in a rush. Stiles' eyes watered as he swallowed convulsively. Derek slipped from his mouth. They stared at each other for a moment, catching their breath. Derek shifted on his stocking feet.

"Thank you," Stiles said, voice scratchy. Derek smiled, the gesture strangely shy.

"Do you want to wear them?" he asked.

Hell yeah.

* * *

20.

The package is on the porch when Stiles gets home from school, and Derek is waiting in his room.

The dildo is bright red, and Stiles is already hard as he strips and climbs onto the bed. He rolls onto his stomach and grabs the lube, coating his fingers and reaching back to slip one inside. It isn't long before he's up to three, breathing harshly through his mouth as he works himself open, hips rocking against the bed. He's hyper-aware of Derek behind him, watching as Stiles' fingers pump in and out of his hole.

"Come on," Derek says, breathless. "Use the cock, Stiles. I want to see it stretch you open."

Stiles groans, dick giving a hard twitch. He pulls his fingers free and reaches for the dildo, slicking it with lube. He presses the tip against his hole and pushes the cock past the outer rim. It burns but he doesn't stop, working it in slowly with gentle thrusts.

"Fuck, you look so good like that."

"I wish it was you," Stiles says, eyes fluttering shut.

"Next time," Derek says, and Stiles feels the bed dip. "Up."

Stiles scrambles onto his hands and knees and Derek reaches for Stiles' dick with one hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around the base, and grabs the end of the dildo with the other. That's all the warning there is before he starts fucking Stiles with it, hard and fast.

"Fu – _uck_ ," Stiles chokes out, dick giving a hard twitch in Derek's grip.

"Yeah," Derek breathes. "Look at you. You fucking love this."

Stiles can't answer, mouth parted on a long, silent gasp, Derek continuously fucking the cock into him. He's shaking, dick painfully hard, and as soon as he's able to catch his breath he starts making embarrassing high-pitched noises, his hands twisting so hard in his sheets he thinks he hears them rip.

Derek groans and the dildo suddenly stops moving, shoved deep. Stiles wants to complain but all of his words seem to have disappeared. Derek lets go of his dick, making Stiles whimper, and moves more fully behind him.

"Legs together," Derek says, tapping the outside of Stiles' thighs. He reaches for the discarded bottle of lube as Stiles obeys, and then straddles Stiles' legs and grips his hips, pushing his slick dick between Stiles' thighs.

Stiles whines, and Derek slides one hand up Stiles' stomach to his chest, pulling him up so that they're pressed together. Stiles groans and drops his head back against Derek's shoulder – and Derek's hand continues sliding up, until it's wrapped lightly around Stiles' throat.

"Is this okay?" 

Stiles nods frantically and Derek tightens his grip until Stiles' breath is coming short and shallow. There are sharp pricks against his skin where Derek's claws are, and Stiles digs his fingers into Derek's thighs.

Derek starts snapping his hips, his dick slip-sliding between Stiles' thighs, dragging along his balls and hitting the base of Stiles' cock. There's a hot buzzing under Stiles' skin, his eyes half-closed and lips parted as he drags in sharp, quick breaths against the pressure on his throat.

"So beautiful," Derek murmurs. "I'm going to fuck you properly next time, fill you with my come. Maybe one day you'll let me knot you –"

As soon as the words leave Derek's mouth Stiles is done for, his untouched dick throbbing and pulsing as he comes everywhere. Derek growls, hand disappearing from Stiles' throat as he moves it to the back of his neck and shoves him face down into the bed. He pulls the dildo out of Stiles' ass and then presses the tip of his dick to his open hole, coming against it. Hot liquid splashes onto Stiles, some of it sliding down over his balls, and Stiles whimpers.

Derek groans, rubbing his dick through the mess and dipping two fingers into Stiles' hole, pushing more come inside. Finally he shifts away, collapsing onto the bed beside Stiles and staring at him through lidded eyes. Stiles lets himself tip over, sprawling half on Derek and half on the bed.

"Will you really knot me?" Stiles asks, and fuck, his voice sounds _wrecked_.

Derek smiles, slow and wicked, and pulls him into a hard kiss. Stiles whimpers, opening his mouth for Derek's tongue, and has almost forgotten his question when Derek pulls back and nips at his bottom lip.

"I will. Soon."

Stiles shudders, and hopes he won't have to wait too long.

* * *

21.

Allison looked over the banister into the living room below and her belly tingled with nerves.

“What are you doing?” Scott tugged at her hand. His harsh whisper echoing in the high ceilings. “Your dad’s right there.”

Allison kissed him, ducking her head to draw attention from her sly grin. “It’ll be fine.” She reached for his belt.

“Shit.”

“He’s been drinking.” Bitterness slipped into her tone and she smiled wider to compensate. “You’ll hear him if he wakes.”

When her hand closed around his dick, Scott’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I might not,” he said. It came out breathy, like he wasn’t sure if he should be fighting this harder.

Before he could gather a better resolve, she’d turned around and with a quick tug, her skirt and panties slipped to the floor. She leaned over the banister, presenting her bare ass. Scott’s helpless moan sent a wicked thrill deep into her belly.

Directly below them, her father snored softly. The newspaper he’d been reading fallen forgotten onto his lap. The glass beside him was empty; it usually was these days, except for the very short moments when it had just been re-filled. 

Scott’s fingers found her wet. Her breath caught as he pushed in three of them. He knew she liked the stretch, that she was already ready for it.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” The crinkle of condom package followed the words; she knew Scott had already been convinced.

“It’ll be fine.”

Her dad would never even notice. He didn’t notice anything these days -- rarely even looked her in eye. Losing his wife, his father, his sister in the span of a few months had broken him. Allison understood his pain, shared it, but she hated it fiercely. She hated herself for competing with _grief_ for her father’s attention.

She clutched as the banister beneath her fingers until the ache of it brought her back.

 

Behind her, Scott gripped her hips and she felt the tip of his latex-covered cock graze her clit. “Ready?”

She stared down at her father, as oblivious in sleep as he was awake. She didn’t even try to keep her ‘yes’ quiet.

Scott wasted no time sliding inside her, setting a familiar pace.

Chris shifted his position and the newspaper on his lap fell away. His subconscious could probably hear them, she thought. Her eyes traced out the folds in his crotch, trying to spot a bulge. She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut in embarrassment at that thought. It’s not as if she wanted--

It was his _attention_ she was looking for. His forgiveness. Some of that unconditional love he’d paid lip-service to in the first few days after Gerard’s death. She’d cried on his shoulder and he’d held her so tightly she could barely breathe -- that was before the panic of losing her had cooled to indifference.

The indifference was _toxic_.

While Scott found his rhythm, Allison imagined Chris waking up to find her being fucked by a werewolf fifteen feet from him. She’d have his undivided attention then. He’d be up off the couch, his hand on a gun before Scott could even pull out. Scott was fast enough, he’d disappear out a window before her dad could get a clear shot. She’d be left leaning on the banister, her ass on display as he climbed the steps to yell at her. She had to stop her train of thought right there.

Scott was getting frantic, bruising her hips with every thrust. As he slammed into her, the acoustics of the stairwell amplified the filthy sounds of slapping flesh. His hand left her hip and found her clit, rubbing it off with brutal pressure -- the kind she liked lately. The next thrust slammed her against the banister and it creaked ominously.

“Harder,” she said, her focus still below.

Scott panted against her back, trying to keep pace while working her clit.

Her dad’s hand twitched.

She trembled, her arms giving out as her orgasm rippled through her body. She was riding the last waves of it when Scott pressed deep, his hips jerky and out of rhythm.

He held her, nuzzling her shoulder before pulling out.

She should get dressed, kiss Scott goodnight, but she was frozen, her hand white-knuckled on the banister. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the peaceful, sleeping face of her father who still hadn’t looked at her.

* * *

22.

Derek sets his groceries down and peers at the writhing mess on his living room floor. 

“Okay,” he says eventually, “I give up. Some type of performance art?”

“You’re evil,” Stiles groans from the floor. 

Derek shrugs. “Just trying to get some context here.”

“The _context_ is that this was supposed to be a sexy surprise, but something went… awry.”

“So I’d guessed.”

“And there weren’t any scissors in the bedroom, so I was attempting to get to the kitchen.”

Apparently, Stiles has been awkwardly rolling across the floor in his quest. He’s wearing nothing but tight black briefs, but there are rope burns across his chest from what had probably once been a ladder of lovely, intricate knots. However, the main problem seems to be that Stiles has managed to securely fasten his ankles not only together, but also to his left wrist… behind his back, leaving only his right arm free. But the ropes aren’t constricting Stiles’ breathing or cutting off his circulation, so Derek doesn’t need to do anything _just_ yet.

“But now that you’re here,” Stiles says brightly, “you can just Wolverine me right out of this.”

Derek sighs and reaches down to scoop Stiles off the floor. He has to be more careful than usual, but it’s still easy enough to sling Stiles over his shoulder and take him back to the bedroom.

By the time Derek has laid Stiles out on the bed, Stiles’ briefs are even tighter, and Derek can see the clear outline of his growing erection. Derek kneels between Stiles’ spread thighs and rubs him through the fabric, cupping and squeezing until Stiles is writhing again. “So what was the original idea here?”

“J-Japanese rope bondage,” Stiles gasps. “It’s hot.” He nods at a spread of computer printouts showing naked men and women bound in elaborately tied ropes. Derek also finds a printout of do-it-yourself instructions, and he only has to read the first three steps to be amazed that Stiles got as far as he did. 

“Are you hurt?” Derek asks.

Stiles sighs. “Only my dignity. And my dick, so cut me out of this and kiss it all better.”

Chuckling, Derek shifts up the bed to shove a pillow under Stiles’ head and neck. “I don’t know. You’ve wrapped yourself up so nicely for me.”

“Don’t tease,” Stiles whines as Derek slowly drags a hand down Stiles’ chest.

The tip of Stiles’ cock is peeking out of the waistband now, and Derek fits his mouth over it and sucks lightly. “If you really want me to cut you out, I will,” Derek says, letting his breath ghost over the wet head of Stiles’ dick. He sucks again, sweeping his tongue over the slit to make Stiles buck beneath him. 

Stiles groans, obviously caught between his pride and his libido. “It’ll take too long. Keep going.”

Actually, with Derek’s claws, it would take a matter of seconds, but there’s a reason Stiles was trying to tie himself up in the first place, so Derek tugs Stiles’ briefs down just enough to free his cock and balls.

And then he leans up over Stiles’ chest again, tucking Stiles’ right arm underneath his body. Stiles doesn’t resist, just whimpers softly as Derek kisses over each of the rope burns. By sheer luck, one loop of rope has managed to stay tight over Stiles’ nipples, and Derek tugs at it, getting Stiles to arch up into the scratching pressure.

By the time Derek has kissed his way back down, Stiles’ cock is flushed an angry red, rock hard and begging for attention. So Derek goes for Stiles’ balls first, sucking each one into his mouth in turn until Stiles is practically sobbing. When Derek returns his attention to Stiles’ cock, it doesn’t take much, just the warm, wet slide of Derek’s tongue as he bobs his head. Soon, Stiles is crying out, Derek’s hands holding him steady as Derek swallows him down.

As soon as Stiles collapses back to the bed, Derek’s claws are out and he’s cutting neatly through the ropes. Once Stiles is free, Derek helps him stretch out on the bed. “I am totally gonna reciprocate,” Stiles slurs, “as soon as I can feel anything below my neck.”

“Idiot,” Derek says fondly, gently moving Stiles’ major joints to make sure nothing’s strained. When he’s done, he crawls up to kiss Stiles, soothing his chapped, bitten lips. “If you wanted to be tied up, all you had to do was ask.”

* * *

23.

His name is Evan. Or maybe it's Aaron. Might be Owen. But his name isn't the point. The _point_ is his hands are huge and his body is heavy and his mouth is working a massive bruise into Stiles' neck, just over the pulse. With the throbbing music drowning out the thoughts in Stiles' head, he's getting exactly what he needs.

Only, he doesn't need it in the middle of the dance floor in a bar three towns over.

Stiles licks his lips in an attempt to say something, but his mouth is dry and the wall feels really good at his back, holding him up where Evan-Aaron-Owen (definitely Evan. Probably.) keeps pushing at him.

It's kind of weird, how it's like a fight, Stiles' fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sweat-damp tank top Evan's wearing, fingertips skidding over hot skin. Evan has Stiles' hips pinned to the wall, clinging heavy enough to make Stiles' knees wobble, but all Stiles wants to do is lean into it. To get some pressure on his dick either with Evan's leg or hand or body. It doesn't matter, Stiles just _needs_.

"Gotta get outta here," Stiles slurs, tilting his head to the side, giving Evan room to find a new spot, to lick along the tendon and bite at the hinge of Stiles' jaw. His hands squeeze Stiles' hips once.

"Got a place," Evan says, his voice dark and low. "Not far."

Stiles nips at Evan's mouth, sharp and fast, then licks his lips again to find a hint of copper there. "What are you waiting for?"

: : :

The house isn't huge, but it has a certain charm with its attic back lit by the gibbous moon. Stiles likes how it's in the middle of nowhere; no one to hear him scream.

(A voice in his head tells him that's not a good thing, but that voice is accompanied by Very Angry Eyebrows, so Stiles is going to ignore it for awhile yet.)

For as much as they didn't touch in the car, Evan is on Stiles' now, hands slipping underneath Stiles' t-shirt, pushing it up and up until it's off, dropped to the floor by his feet. The cool air feels good on his overheated skin, until Evan's hands are back, palming Stiles' sides, teasing his nipples, fingernails dragging over his ribs. It makes Stiles' skin feel too tight and he writhes, hands pushing at Evan's shoulders.

"Bed?" Stiles pants in between long, drugging kisses. His mouth is wet and raw, and there's a thigh between his legs for him to grind against. _Finally_.

"Upstairs." Evan pulls Stiles close, hands fumbling at Stiles' zipper, and turns them. Stiles has to blink to make the stairs come into focus, then moans as a hand wraps around his dick, warm through thin cotton, and he looks down to find his jeans in a puddle at his feet.

"You plan on losing any clothes tonight?" Stiles asks from over his shoulder, the arch of his brow faltering when Evan's thumb drags a circle around Stiles' slit. "Keep doing that," Stiles stutters, "and we'll never make it up the stairs."

Evan chuckles, nudging Stiles forward. "Who says I want to?"

The trip up is difficult, with Evan biting bruises into Stiles' neck and shoulders, his hands on Stiles' chest, tweaking Stiles' nipples. At this point, Stiles is so turned on he can't see straight, so of course he stumbles at the top, catching himself on the wall before he faceplants on the floor. Evan's so close, he missteps, too, stopping his fall with a crushing grip on Stiles' hips, his body draped all along Stiles' back.

In this position, Stiles can feel Evan's dick through his jeans, hot and hard, nestled against Stiles' ass. Stiles moans and rocks into it, head tilted back until he can nip at Evan's chin. He's rewarded with another thrust, this one a little rougher. Stiles' eyes roll into the back of his head.

"Oh my _god_ ," he says, the words thick and rough. "You gotta-- I can't--" his hips roll, restless, and he's reaching back to grab anything he can; Evan's hair or neck, the shirt he's wearing.

Evan's hand slips from Stiles' hip to his stomach and then into his boxer briefs. His grip is firm and his voice sly as he says, "Let's take the edge off, yeah?"

Stiles doesn't argue.

* * *

24.

The sound of the shower door opening and the blast of frigid air made Stiles spin around, wiping shampoo from his eyes. " _Hey_ ," he said as Derek stepped into the shower with him, naked and still rumpled from sleep. "I've got to be on campus in twenty. Wait your turn."

Derek blinked at him, then shut the door and crowded into Stiles's space, reaching for the soap behind him. "It's cold," he grumbled.

"You're like a walking space-heater." Stiles elbowed him out of the spray so he could rinse the shampoo from his hair. "Suck it up."

Derek was looking at him with the distant, intent sort of expression that meant he wasn't listening to a word Stiles said. He stared at Stiles's chest, then drew his gaze down, following the trail of bubbles as they coursed over him.

"Hey." Stiles was not getting hard, damn it, he was _not_. He had a lecture to get to, and his class was halfway across campus. "Stop looking at me like that. If you're not going to behave, I'm going to kick you out and make you shiver until I'm done."

Derek lifted his gaze to Stiles's slowly. "Look at you like what?"

"Oh my God, you _know_ what. Like you'd eat me with a spoon if only you knew where to start."

The light that sparked in Derek's eyes was not reassuring in the least. Neither was his slow grin, which seemed to say that Stiles had just given him the best idea ever.

"Oh God," Stiles moaned. "No. _No._ Derek—"

Derek dropped to his knees, his hands going to Stiles's hips. The water poured onto him, but he just blinked it out of his eyes and looked up at Stiles with that same hungry expression.

"Christ." Somehow, Stiles's hands had found their way into Derek's hair, cupping his skull. "Oh my God, Professor Avery's going to kill me."

Derek pulled Stiles forward until the hot water pounded his back. He leaned forward and ghosted his breath across Stiles's cock, which was, in fact, growing hard very rapidly, no matter what Stiles might have told himself. "Yes?" Derek asked, smiling slyly as he glanced up. The picture he made like that was nothing short of obscene. Obscene and completely unfair.

"You're a terrible influence," Stiles gasped. "A _terrible_ influence. I'm going to be the only student ever to fail because his boyfriend gave him too many blowjobs."

Derek sat on his haunches, putting distance between them. Stiles choked off a desperate sound and grabbed onto Derek's hair again, pulled him back in. "I didn't say _stop_."

Derek's grin flashed, pure victory, an instant before he leaned in and sucked Stiles's cock into his mouth. He was quick, relentless, his cheeks hollowing out every time he drew back. Stiles's head swam and he threw a hand out to brace against the wall. He was going to fall. He was going to fall and crack his head open on the tile and _die_ and some poor coroner was going to have to explain to his father that his only son had suffered death by blowjob. Scott would probably make sure it was engraved on his tombstone, because Scott's sense of humor was completely terrible.

Derek laughed, his breath warm around Stiles's heated flesh, and it was only then that Stiles realized he'd said all of that out loud. "You're not going to die," Derek said, and licked a long stripe up his cock. "I'd catch you."

Stiles lasted maybe another thirty seconds before he came hard, pouring himself down Derek's throat. Derek licked him clean thoroughly before he rose to his feet, shut the water off, and ushered Stiles out of the shower and into a towel. "Fifteen minutes left," he said as he glanced at Stiles's watch on the counter. "You can make it."

Stiles just stood there and stared at him dumbly. "But you didn't even get off."

Derek's grin was pure sin. He walked across the room naked and dripping, sprawled out on his back on the bed so that he was on full display. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

Stiles's jaw dropped. He gaped at Derek, unmoving.

Derek glanced at the bedside clock. "Fourteen minutes. Shouldn't you be putting clothes on?"

Stiles got an absence in Professor Avery's class that day. It was a testament to his genius that he managed not to fail any classes at all that semester.

* * *

25.

Kate thinks about each step, each movement. This seduction must be perfect. He’s half in love with her already, but that’s not enough.

She needs his heart in her palm.

Metaphorically, of course.

She dresses with care. A teal shirt over the skinniest of jeans, and heels to match her shirt. Her hair is perfectly coiffed and curled. Her nails are a brilliant shade of red and her lips are the same. A slash of color across her face.

There’s the bell and her cue. She ushers him into her apartment, dropping his backpack to floor with a hidden moue of distaste. It’s intoxicating how young he is, the youth and vitality beneath his skin, but the physical representation of the social approbation they would suffer should their relationship become public is worrying. Easy enough to dispose of the feeling by hiding the bag behind the arm of the couch.

Laughing she pulls him to the bedroom. She doesn’t need to have details about her school day, she needs to know about his family. And a man’s tongue is always loosened after orgasm. She’s an expert in this after all.

She doesn’t see why work shouldn’t involve a bit of fun. Her brother could never understand. Chris, the golden boy, so firmly entrenched in his beliefs of righteousness. How could he understand that the ends always, always justifies the means? They’re fighting monsters, the things that go bump in the night. Does he think he himself can avoid becoming monstrous? There’s blood on their hands and gun oil under her nails and the taste of accelerant in her mouth. Ah, but such thoughts are for another day.

The full moon is coming. She’ll be ready.

For tonight, though she pushes him onto her bed gently. She laughs with her head thrown back. Slyly, she watches through half-closed eyes at the way he swallows convulsively at the sight of her golden throat.

Attentively, he watches as she swings one leg up onto the bed, teasingly revealing the fact that she’s bare underneath as she unzips the fly of her jeans torturously slowly. She bends fairly in half to wriggle out of them, presenting a portrait of grace and flexibility. But her gaze is demure, for all of her antics. That’s half the fun after all, the face of an angel and the body of a. well.

She reclines back into the chair cunningly positioned to show off every inch of skin to the boy in the bed. She brings one heel up onto the chair’s arm and she’s bared to his gaze. His arms tremble with the effort of not moving off the bedspread, whether to touch her or himself, she doesn’t know.

Her fingers splay her lips daringly, one finger glistening with how wet she is for him. He growls from the bed, nostrils flared to catch every scent of her arousal. With her other hand, she brings the vibrator to play across the skin of her inner thigh, moving ever closer to her clitoris.

This is for her, this pleasure, made exponentially better by the eyes she can feel adding weight to her every move.

Her head lolls as the vibrations play their part across her clit. Even in the throes of pure sensation, nerves singing beneath her skin, she is ever attentive to his needs. The moans from the back of her throat, the wet sounds between her thighs, each brings him higher.

When she finally, rises, heels planted firmly into the plush carpeting, to make her way to the bed, he will be satiated, warm and content. HIs underwear is sticky with the proof of his own orgasm. She plays with the hem of his pants and he smiles at her sleepily. There it is.

Look at her mastery, look at how she’s subdued the beast. Another week will bring to them all what they’re due.

Here is her palm, here is his heart, how lightly it weighs.

How easy it will be to crush it beneath her heels.

* * *

26.

Bight. Bowline. Double wrap. Closure.

***

"You're a confident woman, like your mother," her father says. He's not looking at her, as usual, but she can taste the bitterness.

"You're a leader," her mother says, proud. "I could see it in you the day you were born."

That's what everyone else seems to think as well. No one is surprised by the way Lydia dresses, in dominatrix heels and red lipstick. They're so unsurprised by it that no one actually asks how she identifies.

***

Loop. Pull it through.

Loop. Pull it through.

Loop.

***

Jackson is nice to pin down. There is an exquisite vulnerability in the noises he makes under her touch, but she doesn't thrill in it as the others do. She can see it in their eyes as they watch: the brightness, the eagerness, the sharp, toothy edge of sadism.

It's unsurprising to them that she likes controlling things. Yet somehow, only she is unsurprised by the revelation that really, all she truly craves control over is herself.

***

Lark's head.

Pull taut.

Connection.

***

Rope is like physics. Engineering. Lydia has always been one for the theoretical side of things, but there is something fantastic in the applied exercise of recreating a set of principles in the real world. If her calculations are correct, and her body can stand the stress, then she should be able to make _these_ shapes. She should be able to fly.

It always starts slow, with easy knots around her ankles and a harness around hips or chest. She likes the way hemp fibers get in under her glass-smooth fingernails. She likes the bite of rope into her hips, like a man's rough grip.

Her hands stay free.

***

Afterwards, sometimes, she lies in puddles of rope and touches herself.

"Uh, did you want me to leave?" Stiles asks. He'd been her spotter today; he'd been so quiet that she'd almost forgotten he was there. Lydia considers the question, not bothering to stop the motion of her fingers in her underwear, circling her clit.

"You can keep watching if you want," she decides, tilting her knee a bit so he can see better. Her panties are pretty much see-through, even when they're not soaking wet. "Spot me."

She smirks at the shaky bob of his Adam's apple, then closes her eyes.

She comes three times, for his benefit.

***

Rigging at parties is a performance art. Lydia delights in the eyes on her skin as she hoists herself up, delights in the play of whispers as her feet tilt heavenward and her head swings down, hair spilling everywhere. Most of all, she delights in crushing gravity.

Someone saunters near, his voice oily slick. "Need a hand getting down, pretty thing?"

Jackson and Stiles are on the man before she has time to bare her teeth.

"Thanks," she says when they return. Her voice is hoarse and throaty; she's still upside down.

Stiles nods. Jackson shrugs.

Even after she gets back upright, feet on the ground, she feels unsteady.

"Can I," she starts to ask.

They don't bother to let her finish, just sandwich her between them in a coordinated embrace. Bodies are another kind of bondage, Lydia finds. They hold her suspended, two polarized ends that don't quite want to touch, but are drawn together nonetheless. Curled between them, she feels safe.

"Thanks," she says, muffled in Jackson's chest. She feels the warmth of two sighs against her hair, then the gentle press of two kisses in turn.

***

Half-hitch.

Half-hitch.

Closure.

* * *

27.

Lydia sat on the edge of the bed, one leg extended out as her hand moved along the soft silky stockings. They were new and matched her jacquard print black corset and she felt so decadently beautiful as she waited for one of her best friends. It was Allison day this time; they each had a day, some as scheduled, some as the whims or mood struck. She smiled as she smoothed back her hair, pulled up into a loose bun, a few tendrils framing her face as Allison came into her room.

"You looked beautiful."

"So do you," Allison replied as she walked slowly to the bed, standing next to Lydia's desk. She was dressed only in her own black stockings and nothing else. She bent over slightly and looked back at Lydia with a slow seductive smile. "I've been waiting for this. I'm all ready for you," she said as her hand moved over the smooth skin of her ass, the flattened top of the plug slightly visible as it was deep inside of her, stretching her for what was to come.

"You are aren't you," came the reply as Lydia reached for the harness and slipped into it easy enough, straps wrapping around her tiny hips, the realistic though fake phallus jutting from it in front of her. It was very slick, her hand stroking over the length as she watched Allison.

She teased her and let her fingers move around it, smoothing over Allison's back before loosening it and slipping it from her, gasping as she moaned.

"Oh god Lydia please," she begged. Allison pushed her ass up further, wanting more,wanting release.

Lydia didn't make her wait too long either. She moved behind her and teased her entrance for a little bit before pushing the dildo slow and deep inside if the other girl.

 

She loved watching her react but she wasn't the only one. Hidden behind the slightly open bedroom down there stood another, watching the two girls, the need and hunger evident on his features. Peter’s hand was already in his pants, stroking himself faster, in rhythm to Lydia’s hips. He groaned as Allison did and it was like he was there with them, but like this was even more deliciously enticing.

Lydia kept moving, harder, deeper, faster and leaned over Allison’s back and slipped her hand around her, cupping her breast. Fingers moved over the soft skin; nails teased her nipples and with every action Allison moaned louder, begged for Lydia to fuck her more. Something that she was very happy to do. "It feels good doesn't it? You like how it feels how it feels you up."

"Yes!" Allison cried out as she rest on her forearms, shaking the harder that Lydia thrust and the closer that she was getting. Wearing the plug for hours had left her k a state of arousal for far too long and if wouldn't be too much longer.

Peter groaned as the girls continued. He wouldn't last too much longer but then he never really did when he watched like this. He should stop; he so should. But he didn't and Peter also didn't have problem with that either. A hand pressed hard against the door jam and the wolf was careful not to push it open any further.

Both girls were breathing hard and it was mixed with a harmony of moans and groans. Lydia wanted them to come together and she was focused on pushing Allison over the edge finally.

"Fuck! Fuck... that's it... I can't... I'm coming. Oh God Lydia... !". Allison cried out as she can and Lydia's hips didn't stop moving. But along with Allison she heard something else and she smirked as she looked toward the door.

WIth a few more thrusts Lydia slowed as Allison’s release subsided and she leaned over her, nuzzling her back and smiled again. “We have company,” she said, not at all trying to whisper.

Allison smiled and glanced back at her. “I know. I passed him when I came into the room and conveniently left the door ajar,” she smirked and the two girls grinned.

Slowly the door opened and there stood Peter, jeans undone and low on his hips, licking his fingers sinfully slow and looked a the two of them. “I heard there was a party....” he said and smirked a little himself.

* * *

28.

Laura hardly pauses long enough to say, “Oh right. Derek, Stiles.”

Derek turns and freezes. Stiles is—There’s nothing about him that Derek doesn’t want to put his mouth on. “Hey,” he says, croaky, weak. He clears his throat, ears burning red. “How do you know Laura?”

Laura rolls her eyes. “He’s only the boyfriend I’ve been talking to you about for the last month.”

Derek’s stomach drops. _Boyfriend?_

Stiles grins and his mouth is wide, mobile. “Whoa, you’ve been talking behind my back. Not sure how I feel about that.”

Laura’s answering grin is shark-like. “I’d feel _very_ unsafe.”

“Well now I do,” he says uneasily but he’s still grinning and he’s _painfully_ attractive.

Derek says around the ache of his heart trying to squeeze itself into a raisin, “It was nice meeting you, Stiles.”

* * *

He tries to avoid Stiles. Only he’s one of those people you want to be around _all the time_. He’s funny and kind and his nose wrinkles when he laughs and Derek is falling stupidly in love with him.

Laura corners him and says, “Do you like him? Tell me you like him.”

_I do. Too much_. “I like him.”

Laura frowns. “Just not for me?”

“I didn’t say that.” _But it’s true_.

* * *

Stiles finds him, traps him, when they’re both home for Christmas break. “Derek. Hey.” He’s been drinking. “So. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Derek can’t look at him. He’s too _much_. “I haven’t.”

Stiles smiles but it looks forced. “You did literally turn around and walk the other way when you saw me coming.” Derek cringes. “Which sucks because I thought we were getting along. Laura was pretty amazed by it. She said you don't open up to many people.” Derek flinches harder at the mention of Laura. Stiles leans into his space, concern in every line of his face. "Derek?"

“You should go,” Derek says gruffly. Stiles slides a warm hand over his shoulder and Derek wants to cry. He presses his cheek to the buzz of Stiles’s hair, turns so his lips are skimming it and says helplessly, “Stiles, you have to go. I want things I—”

He sees when the penny drops for Stiles, behind the wideness of his eyes and the heat of his gaze and he wants this too. Somehow that only makes things worse.

* * *

Derek hears the creak of his door and he can see Stiles carefully closing it behind him from the hall light.

He sits up, heart pounding. “Stiles? What are you—”

Derek can barely make out his face in the illumination from his alarm clock. It paints his skin an otherworldly blue, like he’s looking at him underwater. He kneels on Derek’s bed, his knee resting by his hip and he says desperately, “I won’t touch you. I’ll just—” Stiles licks his lips, tone dripping with disbelief, “You’re hard.”

Derek’s heart is beating wildly and he puts his hand on Stiles’s knee to stop him getting any further. “Don’t. She’s my sister. Stiles—”

Stiles shakes his head, promises, “I won’t touch you. I just want to see.” He pulls his shirt off over his head, unbuttons his jeans. He’s not wearing anything underneath. “I won’t touch you,” and it’s like a mantra. “ _Please_ ,” he says.

Derek pulls down the covers, pushes down his boxers, all the while staring up at Stiles as Stiles drinks him in with a whimper. Stiles climbs on top of him, straddles him, leans back. Derek watches him slide two fingers inside himself while his cock throbs to replace them.

Stiles babbles while he fucks himself, like he can’t control himself. “I think about it all the time. You inside me, fucking me.” His thighs rest over Derek’s and Derek can feel the heat of him, the push-pull of his body as he finger fucks himself. He gasps, “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

And it’s too much. Derek is shaking with the effort of staying still and he grabs Stiles’s thighs _hard_ and grits out while tears well in his eyes, “You have to go.”

Stiles bites his lip and pleads, “Derek, I won’t—”

Derek grabs him by the back of his neck, pulls him forward and kisses him like he never means to stop. “I will,” he says, voice wrecked with emotion. “I _will_.”

Stiles breaks up with Laura. He transfers from Berkeley. He doesn't speak to Derek again. No matter how many times Derek begs him to.

* * *

29.

Erica returns on a Tuesday.

Boyd remembers because they'd had a chemistry test that morning and Stiles had yet to stop complaining about Harris.

One minute they’re running drills in the woods on the Preserve, and the next, Erica’s sauntering through the trees like she hasn’t been gone for ages. Like she’s still a part of their pack. Like she hadn’t fucking _abandoned_ them.

Someone starts talking, but Boyd doesn’t hear a word over the sudden crushing weight bearing down on him. Something twists in his gut, curls up his spine, running hot and cold at the same time, and he can’t see, can’t think, can’t _breathe_. His shoulders feel heavy, muscles taut, and all he can do is stare.

He doesn't stick around to hear her explanation.

It’s been two years.

*****

It turns out that Erica voluntarily stayed with the Alpha pack for months, learning everything she could before they cut her loose. Then she’d taken up residence with the Anders pack south of Beacon Hills.

She wasn’t a prisoner, hadn’t been forced to stay away, but not once had she made contact with anyone. Boyd still remembers being tortured, then inexplicably being offered the chance to leave. He also remembers Erica standing with the Alpha pack, watching him retreat, silent and unaffected.

As far as Boyd’s concerned, she made her choice years ago.

*****

It takes over a month for the others to start letting her back into the fold. Boyd knows that Derek doesn’t trust her, not yet, but he wants to. She’s learned a lot while she’s been gone. So have they. But unfortunately Erica has the upper hand. They need her.

Occasionally he catches Erica looking at him, gaze soft and sad, but she doesn’t approach him. Hasn’t yet. He’s still not ready.

*****

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” Erica says as they crouch down in the bushes a few hundred yards from where trolls have taken up residence in an abandoned farmhouse.

Boyd knows she’s right, but he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of admitting to anything. Instead, he steels himself for the impending fight, gaze hardening as he stares out across the open field, listening for Derek’s signal.

“I’m sorry.”

Her heartbeat remains steady.

He doesn’t say anything, but he knows.

*****

Sometimes it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Sometimes it feels like everything has.

Sometimes Boyd even smiles when Erica and Stiles gang up on Derek, or she calls Scott and Isaac out on their blatant flirting. But the sting of betrayal runs deep. He doesn’t know how to forgive, but more importantly, how to trust again.

Sometimes he finds himself wanting to, though. Maybe it’s a start.

*****

Everything’s going well with the witch coven, until it suddenly isn’t.

The spell is expected, but the explosion isn’t. Erica and Stiles are in the crossfire, but she doesn’t even hesitate to protect him from the blast. Scott and Derek scream for Stiles, but Erica is all Boyd can see, heart stuttering in his chest. He could’ve lost her for real this time.

He rushes for her, without even thinking, pulls her into his arms. She’s covered in blood, warm and sticky against his chest, but he doesn’t care. Boyd feels Erica curl around him, into him, and he tightens his grip.

*****

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a common theme these days, though Boyd thinks that maybe _he’s_ the one who should be apologizing.

He presses a kiss against her lips, her chin, trails kisses down her shoulder and chest, relishing in the way her breath catches in her throat, the way her heartbeat speeds up as he moves lower.

“I should be the one apologizing to you,” he says, quiet, but he knows she hears him.

“No. I left you. You had every right.”

Boyd shakes his head. “I could’ve given you a chance, listened to what you had to say first.”

He sinks to his knees, hands running up and down her thighs appreciatively. She lets out a low hum, contented, spreading her legs as wide as a shower stall will allow, and digging her nails into Boyd’s scalp as he mouths at her clit.

“It’s...okay. You know-- _oh fuck, yes_ \--now.”

The taste of her arousal is intoxicating, something he hasn’t realized he’s missed until this very moment. Erica moans her encouragement as Boyd slips two fingers inside of her.

They’ve wasted so much time. _He’s_ wasted so much time. But not any more.

* * *

30.

“What’s wrong, Gizheurann?” Mom asked when she found you sobbing beneath the apple tree, your face redder than the ripening fruit. The name made you cry harder.

Her eyes pleaded with you. Since you’d started school last year, she’d grown wan. Every morning, you tried to stay home. Crying. Faking stomach aches. Refusing to get out of bed. It didn’t work. They took you to doctors, but you weren’t sick. You were _wrong. Nobody could fix that._

Sometimes you wonder if she wore her heart out worrying for you. If you’d been normal, would it still be beating?

Mom pulled you into her lap, and the secrets fell from your lips, crashing and breaking against the tear-stained fabric of her blouse. The boys wouldn’t play with you at recess. They laughed when you wanted to be Batman. The girls thought you were weird. All the girls were supposed to wear skirts to the concert next week, but you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t! You’d rather die.

When you lifted your head, she was crying too. Somehow, that helped. You’d been afraid she might say you were silly, there was nothing wrong. Maybe her tears gave you the courage to ask, in a small voice, “Was I cursed?”

She you charms to keep away the monsters under the bed, to bring good luck. You both knew curses were serious. She looked up at the sky, at the apples overhead.

“Zaichik,” she said at last, “I think maybe you were.”

Next week, Dad drives you to a different school. Your new teacher introduces you as Stiles. You smile, run a hand through your freshly-buzzed hair. You sit next to a boy named Scott.

Scott lets you be Batman, at least until he gets the superpowers, which is ironic, since Batman has none. But Scott is cursed, too, so you’ll cut him some slack.

* * *

You’ve claimed a debilitating fear of water since puberty, so instead of splashing in the pool with your friends, you’re trudging through the woods after Derek, who doesn’t scare you anymore, but still pisses you off. You’d give anything to be able to whip your shirt off like him. Your binder is sweaty and itchy.

You’re reduced to daydreaming about those blissfully cool (if terrifying) hours keeping Derek afloat when he suddenly stops. You follow his gaze to where Peter lays in the bushes, eyes glassy, throat a mess of red.

Derek digs the grave, but you spread the wolfsbane. An X this time, not a spiral. Derek can’t exactly seek revenge on the Alpha Pack when he killed Peter himself once. Afterwards, you brush the dirt from your hands, while Derek stands over the grave.

“Sometimes I think I’m cursed,” he says.

“I hear you,” you say, with feeling, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before you think better of it.

His eyes go wide. You tense, until something raw and broken flickers in them. Suddenly, you’re sucking on his lower lip, and he’s gripping your hips. Then he reaches for the hem of your t-shirt, and reality crashes hard.

“There’s something you need to know,” you stammer.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I already know.”

You suppose it’s not that surprising. Derek creeps around in your room. He has super senses. But . . . 

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

“I’m a fucking werewolf,” Derek answers. And . . . fair point.

* * *

You can’t meet Derek’s eyes when you strip off the binder. You toe off your boxers, toss your packer into the underwear drawer. Then he’s catching your chin, tilting your face up, and his body is solid and warm against your naked skin. When he kisses you, it’s electric.

You’d feared sex with Derek will be like something from the Discovery Channel. As hot as that seems in theory, you’re nobody’s bitch. But he’s hesitant, almost skittish. By now, you know it’s not because of you. It turns out you’re not the only one with secrets.

“Tell me what you want,” he rumbles, nipping at your throat. You’re too shy to speak, but you drag his head down. You’ve always been sensitive there, and it’s gotten better since you’ve started T. His stubble feels _amazing_ on your dick. 

And maybe your life is a horror novel, not a fairy tale. A kiss can’t break either of your curses. But when you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, it feels like a blessing all the same.

* * *

31.

Not his music and not his scene but the liquid courage from his bedside table sloshed around Jackson's head fast enough it only left space for the throbbing bass and his hard cock. He thought he saw a glimpse of Danny somewhere, but he was lost in the throng of arms and bodies, chests rubbing against his back, fingers brushing along between his legs and over his ass before long.

"Haven't seen you here before?" someone shouted in his ear, following it with a slow grind, cock pressed to Jackson's hip.

"No," Jackson shouted back. Because he didn't do gay. But with Lydia gone, what was the harm in trying the cock. Danny didn't seem to mind it. So he went with it, getting handfuls of crotch and lewd promises whispered into his ear.

His cock was too hard to piss through at the urinal later, hard enough he contemplated jerking it down the drain. People came and went, but one guy stayed and watched from the side.

"Nice cock," the guy said.

"Thanks." Jackson brushed his thumb along the length, only then glanced across. Daddy-type, could be Allison's dad but wasn't, chest hair curling from under his shirt, beard.

A pause and some piss, finally, then, "You interested?" Jackson asked. He shook off and turned, looked at the guy properly again who nodded towards the stalls. It wasn't really gay if he did it when drunk, he figured. It was just one of those things, then, that he could throw in Danny's face the next time Danny moaned that jerking it to two guys doing a girl only made Jackson even more straight.

The guy led the way to the stall. Jackson still had his cock out, which seemed appropriate enough, but the guy stopped him when Jackson reached for his zipper.

"One thing," the guy said as he pushed his trousers down to mid-thigh. "Hope that's not an issue."

The information didn't compute through the haze of alcohol until Jackson got a second look.

"Shit," Jackson said, staring at pussy while his own dick tightened in his hand. It didn't look like Lydia's much, with the hair and a bit more of everything, but he'd had his face in enough pussies to- "I know my way around that," he said. That.

So he wouldn't suck dick and say he had, he figured when he got to his knees on the piss-stained floor and got his face into the man's crotch. His legs stuck out under the door, tiles mucking up his trousers.

"Suck my cock," the guy said when Jackson mouthed at the clit.

Jackson could roll with that. The guy's hands on his head and some length between his lips, he gave it a few sucks, tongue playing around the easy mouthful, getting under the hood and where the sweet stuff came from underneath.

The guy squeezed Jackson's face between his thighs, hair scratching over Jackson's cheeks. Jackson had one hand on his own cock, the other on the guy's ass as he got his mouth fucked, his lips and nose getting pressed into the guy's pubes with every thrust in, tongue teasing along the guy's tip when he pulled back far enough. The guy shuddered above Jackson, insides of his thighs and Jackson's cheeks getting wet with it, then he thrust his cock back into Jackson's mouth.

"Man, you're pretty," the guy said as Jackson stripped his cock, trying to balance against the force of the guy's hips at the same time, even as steps came and went, stopped outside, feet knocking against Jackson's. Fucking obvious what they were doing in the stall, Jackson with his mouth full, wet slurping, sucking sounds and all.

"Fucking. Coming," the guy got out over moans, adding clarity to the obvious, and Jackson left his mouth right there, sucked him good, as the guy jerked above him, hips thrusting away.

Jackson's face was covered in the guy's juices, his hand in his own come, when the guy sat back on the toilet seat, trousers around his ankles now, and palmed his crotch, stroking at it.

"Shit," Jackson said, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.

When he got back out into the club he still tasted the guy in his mouth, the music was relentless, and the night had only just started. He had hours to go. His head was a bit woozy, but what was another night he wouldn't really remember (a regular thing, that's what).


	7. Group C - No Warnings or Pairings

32.

Boyd had done all the research he could before accepting Derek’s offer. He’d questioned Derek extensively, demanded demos, drove Derek mad with his constant asking, but he’d been determined to know, before taking the plunge.

His deepest imaginings were nothing quite like the reality of it though. He could feel everything. It made him queasy at first, too much stimulus making him disorientated, but soon he learnt control. He could tap in to what he wanted to hear (everything when Peter was about) and block out what he didn’t want to hear (Isaac’s ‘private time’).

It was probably the enhanced strength that he enjoyed the most. 

He cornered Derek in the shower and dropped to his knees, burying his face in Derek’s groin, inhaling the deep scent there.

Derek shifted a leg over Boyd’s shoulder, so Boyd could duck his head lower, nose a Derek’s balls and lap at the sensitive skin behind them.

Derek growled under his breath, fingers tight against the back of Boyd’s head. Boyd pulled back, sucking along the length of Derek’s cock. Derek raised up, shoving forwards, choking Boyd. Boyd wanted it deep in his throat, but not yet. He had boundaries to push first.

Boyd ducked his head again, this time putting his hands under Derek’s thighs and lifting.

“Wha-” Derek gasped as his feet left the floor. Boyd could hear Derek’s heart beat skip and speed up, the scrabbling of Derek’s hands against the tile. Boyd waited for a moment, to see if Derek would allow it, would give Boyd that trust. Derek’s heartbeat didn’t slow exactly, but it steadied, and Boyd took that as permission.

His shoulders burned, but he could hold Derek’s weight, which was so cool. He huffed out a breath, and licked at Derek’s balls, hair catching on his tongue.

Derek gasped out Boyd’s name, hand coming to cup the back of Boyd’s head once more. Boyd grinned and continued his ministrations, taking Derek’s balls into his mouth, groaning at the taste of him. He sucked gently, and Derek sucked in a breath, fingers flexing against his skull.

Boyd pushed Derek up more, shoving forward so he could lick at Derek’s hole, wet and awkward from the angle. He was starting to ache, arms shaking a bit, which made sense, it was enhanced power, not infinite power.

“Fuck, wait,” Derek said, climbing down from Boyd’s hands. Boyd felt a flash of disappointment, but then Derek turned, and leaned against the shower wall, bent over. Boyd shrugged and grinned. He could see how they couldn’t continue the way they were, but Derek had trusted him enough to let him try, and that was something.

Boyd spread Derek’s cheeks, rubbing a thumb against the tight furl there. Derek grumbled something, and Boyd leaned forward, pushing at Derek’s hole with his tongue. Once he had got Derek wet he sat back, pushing a finger into the clutching heat of Derek.

He was mesmerised by the sight and feel of his finger disappearing into Derek’s body. Boyd never thought he’d get here with Derek at all, never thought Derek would trust him enough.

“Get in me,” Derek growled. Boyd tutted, because Derek was still a pushy fucker, apparently.

* * *

33.

Stiles is not _obsessed_ with what's lurking in Derek's pants.

He just appreciates it. (And yes, it totally lurks, okay? Just like the rest of Derek.)

Surprising absolutely no one, Derek has kind of a big dick because he still is a pretty dick personality wise. But it's thick, uncut and longer than the average cock. Stiles would know because he's studied a lot of porn in anticipation of spending quality time with anyone's crotch that wasn't his own.

"Ugh," Stiles huffs, slumped on his side and kind of casually crushing Derek. Satisfyingly, even super Alpha is still panting a little heavily and Stiles is glad because his ass just got reamed. Like, it's kind of leaky back there with come and lube and probably Derek's spit because there had been rimming.

Because rimming is always the answer and Derek is a glorified dog.

Below him, Derek twitches when Stiles rolls away but prior experience foretells a catnap, as it's been five minutes since anybody came and lazy make-outs always inspire sleepiness in Derek.

Because Derek is a tender dude on the inside. Still an epic douche most of the time but somewhere in the charred (ha!) remains of his heart, there is some tenderness which manifests in naps and an affinity for babies.

It takes about three minutes for Derek to start softly snoring, little wuffles of breath that even make Derek's beard look soft and cuddly. It takes about three minutes and fifteen seconds for Stiles to move from post coital glow to wide awake and curious.

Honestly, he could go for a Mountain Dew right now.

But his thirst totally gets sidelined because... well, Derek's dick is distracting and Stiles can still feel the ghost brutality of how throughly well fucked that dick dicked him.

Next thing he knows, he's scooting down to get a better closer look because it's _right there_. It's soft, although still pretty intimating inside it's little foreskin cave. He just wants to say hi. Maybe thank it.

"Hey dude," Stiles whispers, elbows hooked over Derek's hairy, splayed legs. Above him, the rest of Derek snores on. "I just wanted to say, you're a pretty capable dick and I respect that."

On closer examination, the base is a little wet and yeah, that makes Stiles' dick twitch a little because that's _been in his ass_ and it's like _still glistening_. Why that's super hot is kind of beyond him right now. All he knows is that he really feels like he should lick it off.

Derek doesn't move when he curls his tongue around the base to lick at the messy wetness of lube and come. It tastes a little gross but Stiles is still into it. Now that his mouth is there though... he might as well give it a little suck, right?

Stiles has never had a soft cock in his mouth. It feels strange but kind of nice, the skin is loose and soft—a lot like mouthing at balls. It's different though, the way he can suck at the head and stick the tip of his tongue _inside_ —wow.

"Stiles," Derek hisses, sleepy and annoyed but his body betrays him because Stiles can feel him growing. It's not a rapid swell but Derek's dick gets a little heavier on his tongue and whatever room Stiles' tongue had to play with the little foreskin hat Derek had going on for his dick is gone.

Embarrassingly, Stiles feels like he might blow his load any minute.

It's unbearably hot, feeling the way Derek's dragged into wakefulness by his cock. Stiles' mouth is so fucking full—like he can take more now because Derek's dick was small and cute but now it's growing, nudging at the back of his throat, threatening to fuck his throat as raw as he fucked Stiles' ass.

Stiles gives in when Derek's fingers find his hair and just starts jerking off.

He comes when Derek sighs out his name, just like he does when he eats Stiles out. The fact that Stiles is sucking on a cock that has been in his ass not fifteen minutes before, _was still wet from being inside him_ has him coming into his hand and choking on the full weight and length of Derek's dick.

It's fucking awesome and, spoiler alert, he totally swallows when Derek comes like years later because he's a gracious dude. Derek's dick and Stiles' holes are basically a match made in tender, werewolf heaven.

Absolutely Stiles' tested and approved.

* * *

34.

Stiles woke up and found himself blindfolded and constrained. His arms were held against something solid, a wall, perhaps. His legs, though, were pulled up in the shape of a V. The cold draft against his ass told him he’d been stripped while unconscious. This did not bode well.

“Glad that you’re with us, Stiles of the Hale pack,” a voice nearby rumbled.

“Considering I’m naked and bound, without consent, I’m going to assume you’re one of the bad guys. Not sure what prompted the nakedness, usually being tied up is good enough for the bad guys. What do you want, pervert?” asked Stiles.

“What is your favorite color, Stiles?”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Simply trying to get to know you,” the voice replied. “Well?”

“Um, blue,” Stiles said with hesitation. “Any chance you’d be willing to let me down?”

There was a rustle of clothing as the man moved about. A hand petted Stiles’ cheek and flicked at the perky nipples. “Perhaps later when we’re done the lesson.”

Before Stiles could utter another question, a hand held on to his soft cock and slipped something squishy on top of the head.

“Woah, bad touch! Bad touch!” exclaimed Stiles as he tried to wiggle his way out.

A flick of the switch and the tip of his cock started vibrating. It didn’t take long for his cock to fill out and stretch the toy to its capacity. There was a nudge against his ass before something small slipped inside.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” the mysterious voice asked.

“Yes, you fucker,” Stiles groaned.

The vibration slowly got more intense, but there was also the sound of trickling water. It dawns on Stiles what’s happening the moment lukewarm water starts filling his colon.

“No, please, God!” cried Stiles as he pulled against his bonds.

It didn’t take long before he started feeling full. His cock is straining against his stomach, the vibration getting stronger as time passed, but his stomach is starting to cramp from all the water.

“Please. What do you want?” Stiles begged.

“That is the lesson you must learn today, Stiles. It wouldn’t be a lesson if I gave you all the answers.”

There’s sharp tug and the tube is pulled from his ass. Stiles clenches down as hard as he can to keep the water inside. The cramps are getting painful. The toy on his cock is keeping him hard, but the pleasure is almost painful at this point.

“Please, just let me go,” he pleads.

“That’s now how it works, Stiles.”

“I’ll talk to Derek for you. Is that what you want?” Stiles cries out with a particularly painful cramp. “You want him to join the gang?”

A hand flutters over Stiles’ stomach. “I would not oppose if Hale decided to join us, but he would have to fight his way into the pack like everyone else.” There’s a moment of silence before the voice continues, “Perhaps it’s time we adjourn this lesson.”

Stiles screams as the hand presses down on his stomach and there’s nowhere for the water to go, but out. The relief from the pressure is so grand that his brain interprets it as pleasure and he comes while emptying his guts.

Stiles is panting when there’s a whisper against his ear, “I’m curious as to how you’re going to explain this to your pack.”

* * *

35.

Stiles love Scott. He really does. Brothers for life. But living with Scott is a different story.

He could live with the messy bathroom and the dishes in the sink and the possibly sentient dust bunnies growing under their couch. He could even deal with the claw marks on his Xbox controllers, and Scott had better be getting him new ones for Christmas.

The sex, though, is too much. Every weekend night, and an alarming number of school nights, Stiles has to clap on noise-cancelling headphones and turn the volume way up just to block out the sound. And that doesn’t do anything about the thumping.

It’s like he’s trying to fuck his way through all the waifish brunettes in the Bay Area. Which—Stiles feels for him, he really does. When the love of your life leaves you standing alone under the disco ball at your senior prom, well, it’s rough.

But this really doesn’t count as a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s doing nothing at all for Stiles’s sleep schedule. With all the screaming orgasms and the morning sex, it’s feels like it’s been months since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep. And there’s no talking to Scott about it. He just gets all bashful as the girl tiptoes out the door and turns the puppy eyes on Stiles and even the sleep deprivation can’t overcome Scott’s puppy eyes.

When Stiles gets home from his orgo lab that night, he’s tired and hungry and the last thing he’s expecting is to see Scott fucking some girl from behind on the landing of their staircase. They don’t notice him come in, don’t even look over when he closes the door and sets his backpack down.

Stiles is annoyed, pissed actually, but he can’t make himself stop watching. They didn’t even manage to get their clothes off all the way. Her underwear is caught around her knees, all bunched up like somebody just shoved it down, like they couldn’t even wait to take it off. Her shirt is rucked up under her breasts so all Stiles can actually see is her belly and the side of her thigh where Scott’s gripping her.

It’s—its’ really fucking hot is what it is.

Scott’s face is buried in her shoulder. His hands look huge against her hips. She’s pushing back into his thrusts with this long, smooth, undulating sort of motion and shouting a little every time he pushes in hard.

Scott starts to thrust faster and he slides his fingers down to rub against her clit. She bucks into it, gasping and Stiles is definitely hard. He moves, very quietly, into the living room, out of view of the stairs. He’s conflicted for a moment before pulls his dick out. It’s embarrassing how quickly he falls into their rhythm. As her moans get louder his strokes get faster. He feels his orgasm building right as she starts shouting Scott’s name and he manages to finish before it kills his boner. Stiles hears Scott’s distinctive orgasm groan and the thumping stops.

He gives them a few minutes to clear out before going back to the entryway to get his stuff. He’s walking up the stairs, carefully not touching anything, when he hears a long drawn-out moan coming from Scott’s room, definitely female.

Fuck it, he’s sleeping at Isaac’s.

* * *

36.

Erica is sprawled on the bed, using her mouth to investigate the soft skin covering Boyd's hip, dragging her tongue across the sharp point of bone with relish, when she hears the bathroom door open behind her.

"About time," she murmurs, rolling her eyes up to see Boyd's expression as he gets first glimpse, and the sharp flash of interest she sees raises the anticipation another notch, heat gathering between her legs until she can feel the wet heat sliding onto her inner thighs. "I didn't think you were going to come out at all."

She takes her time rolling over, wants this moment to last, the quick, deep thrum of Boyd's heartbeat singing in her ears, the lighter, faster thrum of Isaac's pulse as he waits for her. Her first glimpse of Isaac takes her breath away, and she lets her eyes slowly travel down the dark tank top and the sheen of sweat on his shoulders and neck, the barely there stretch of fabric that can barely contain his erect cock, and last of all the fish net thigh highs that do absolutely wonderful things to his legs and all sorts of filthy things to her imagination.

There's a spike of lust in the room that smells like all three of them and she lets her mouth fall open so she can taste it, lets it heat her from the inside out and make her nipples contract in something that feels too good to be pain. She slides off the bed and onto the floor in one graceful step, her hair falling against her naked back in a caress.

"So you like it, huh?" Isaac swallows, muscles contracting along the length of his throat, before smiling. "I figured you would."

"You can say that again," Erica breathes before she's in Isaac's space, fisting a hand into his hair and pulling him into a kiss that has no room for anything gentle. Not when she can feel the burn behind her eyes and the barely there press of fangs against her lips that means her wolf is close to the surface. She wants to shove him down and ride him, to feel the faint scratch of the fishnets on her ass, his low whines as Boyd keeps his mouth occupied.

There's a low rumble from the bed and Erica pulls back with a huff, slides a look over her shoulder. Boyd just looks at her and she rolls her eyes before using her grip in Isaac's hair to guide him towards the bed. She likes the way Boyd makes Isaac moan, so she can stand to share.

Boyd pulls Isaac onto the bed, slips a finger into the waistband of Isaac's panties and pulls that little bit so his cock can spring free. She hadn't thought the situation could get any hotter but the sight of Isaac's cock jutting out of his panties with the fishnets pressing white lines into his thighs makes her so wet she can't quite stifle the needy little moan that builds in the back of her throat.

She isn't really sure how it happens, only that she's moving forward and Boyd has turned Isaac around, so she can see his large eyes and kiss swollen mouth, his cock curling against his belly without the panties to hold it down. She pushes the panties down to his knees, holds the fish nets in place where the elastic keeps it secure, the thin lines scratching at her palms as she leans into to lick at the head of his cock.

Beneath Isaac's moan she hears the faint pop of the lube and grips at Isaac's thighs hard enough to get the chance to admire the bruises beneath the fish nets before they fade. She doesn't wait for Boyd. Not with their combined arousal making the air taste of spices on the back of her tongue. She seals her mouth over the head of Isaac's cock and then down, tilts her head so she can swallow around him. She knows when Boyd gets a finger inside, Isaac's low moan ratcheting up into keening desperation that has him gripping her hair tight enough to hurt.

Erica hums, fingers pressing hard against the fishnets. She lets Isaac start thrusting and each scrape against her fingers goes straight to her clit. She wants to press into that slick heat with her fingers, but forces her hands to stay on Isaac's thighs as he fucks her throat.

She'll get her turn.

* * *

37.

"Sweet god…" 

Peter had told Chris to expect a surprise tonight, but he _really_ hadn't been expecting something like this.

In hindsight, yeah; sex with Peter has never been 'normal'.

"Well?" Peter asks expectantly. His hands are on his hips, where a _skirt_ rests, wrapped low around them. There's a pair of garters underneath that are keeping up a set of black lace hose – Peter's shaved his legs, Chris notes – and it's all completed by a set of black heels.

Peter wears it all _way_ too well. Chris is a pervert for _liking_ it, too.

His dick doesn't have anything against it; it chubs against Chris's thigh by the second. In plain view, no less, as Chris had showered and gotten comfortable as Peter had disappeared to the other bathroom. He leans back on his elbows and smirks, not bothering to hide the slight shame he feels over finding Peter appealing in _lingerie_. "Looks good."

Peter arches a brow sharply. "Good."

Chris's brows raise some. His lips purse briefly and he wets them, trying to articulate more to Peter's tastes. There are crosswires in his brain short-circuiting though. "Yeah. Very good. "

Peter rolls his eyes in exasperation but drops his hands from his hips and saunters over to the bedside. Chris wonders where the hell he learned to walk so smoothly in heels, then decides that he doesn't want to know. Just like how he doesn't want to think about how they even became something like lovers – dysfunctional at best. 

Peter lifts a leg and presses a pointed heel just beside Chris's thigh, a wily smirk pulling at his lips now. "Not even going to ask where I got this ensemble?"

"Don't want to know," Chris answers. He doesn't hesitate to drag a hand up Peter's calf. It's so _smooth_ , sans the slight texture of the stocking. He curls his fingers behind Peter's knee and gives him a small tug. "C'mere…"

Peter snorts softly but does anyway, kneeing onto the bed and gracefully straddling Chris's hips. Chris might not be as solid as the werewolf, but he's lean from keeping up with training. Just as broad through the shoulders, with a narrower waist. It's always a toss-up on who pins who, but tonight he knows exactly what Peter is after, and glides both his hands along Peter's thighs, up to cup his ass underneath that scandalous skirt, finding no underwear underneath. Should have known. Actually, now that he's taking time to look, he can see Peter's cock starting to lift the front some as it fills and thickens.

Peter smooths his hands over Chris's chest, loves to knead at him like a _cat_ , and squirms into his touch, wanting more.

 

Peter _scratches_ , all blunt nails, leaves red welts down Chris's chest. Chris _hisses_ and bares his teeth, digs his own nails into the fleshy part of Peter's ass, rocks his hardened dick under Peter's balls.

It's hard to say who kisses who, but it's _brutal_ , all teeth and tongue and pulling and sucking. _Filthy_. Peter drags the sides of his pointed high heels against the soft skin of Chris's outer thighs, and that's all it takes for Chris to flip him, pin him down. Peter fights, always does, it's instinct and Chris gets his teeth on Peter's neck, _bites_ hard enough to draw blood.

Peter lets out the lovechild of a snarl and whimper, scratches angrier marks down Chris's sides, digs hot points of pain on his hips; those will bruise later.

Chris claws right back at him, worries his teeth in Peter's skin, the sharp metallic tang of blood against his tongue fueling the fire pooling in his own veins. He manages to get hold of one of Peter's wrists and pins it over Peter's head, lets out a very human growl as he ruts against the werewolf.

Peter tenses and gasps out – then goes lax. Submitting. Just to Chris, just tonight. Next time might be different, but tonight Peter yields and raises a leg, hooks it over Chris's hip and digs a heel against his ass.

 _This_ is their relationship; push and pull. Acquiescing. Sex resulting in bruises and scratches. 

Chris isn't giving it up anytime soon.

He makes a point to get a picture of Peter afterward, looking utterly debauched, white streaking over his rucked up skirt. 

A dozen holes ripped in his stockings. 

A heel gone missing. 

Hair mussed.

Lips pulled into a cat-got-the-cream smile.

 _Perfect_.

* * *

38.

Stiles drags the charcoal over the paper, using his thumb to carefully smudge shadows. As always, the easels of the art class make a circle, the models positioned carefully in the center on a small stage.

They’re beautiful young men, in a sitting pose with their limbs entwined, leaning into each other. It could be something hot, sexy, and Stiles pictures that in his mind, a precious, intimate moment between two lovers. But these are models, paid to pose nude, and while they seem very comfortable, their cocks are soft, their kisses all a figment of Stiles’ imagination.

Stiles spies his art instructor Derek stopping his slow, creeper-like meandering around the classroom to speak quietly to one artist. Stiles tries very hard not to pay attention to that, or wish it was himself.

He goes back to his own sketch, losing himself in the creation. He doesn’t know how long he goes on before he startles when there’s a voice right behind him, close to his ear.

“Well then,” Derek says, voice low, gravelly. “That’s some artistic license you’ve taken.”

“I … what?” Stiles blinks at his sketch, feeling his eyes go wide in horror when he realises what Derek’s saying.

The men in his drawing look distinctly different than those actually in front of him. Same pose, yes, but one is significantly more muscular, with dark hair and stubble, and the other lean with a speckling of moles and an amused tilt to his mouth. In the sketch, their cocks are hard, their faces, body language, everything more aroused.

“See me after class,” Derek says, too casual, and moves on to the next person.

Stiles gulps and wishes he could disappear, but later stays as everyone else files out of the room. Stiles packs up his supplies, leaving the sketch hanging.

Suddenly, Derek’s right behind him again, looking over Stiles’ shoulder at it -- at _them_. Together. Sexually.

Oh god.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, breaking the silence he can’t handle.

“Why?”

“For--” Stiles gestures. “I shouldn’t--”

“You’ve got a great artistic eye.” 

Stiles is shocked; Derek isn’t one to be free with compliments.

“But--”

Stiles groans. “Of course there’s a but.”

Derek’s so close behind Stiles, mouth against his ear, that Stiles swears he can feel the curve of Derek’s lips into a smirk.

“But you don’t really see, do you?”

“I -- what? Of course I do.”

“I’ve seen you looking at me,” Derek says softly, “but you always glance away when I look back.”

“I--” Stiles never thought that Derek would, not like _that_.

He stands corrected when Derek presses against him, fully chest-to-back. Derek’s next words sends a million jolts right through Stiles’ body. “You draw me when you should be paying attention in class. Draw _us_. Explain your work.”

Stiles swallows hard, all attempts to maintain some sort of dignity flying out the window when Derek’s hand presses against his belly. Stiles relaxes into the solid wall of Derek’s chest, unable to stop it, pushing his ass back into Derek’s crotch.

Stiles … isn’t reading this wrong, he knows that now, and it makes him rather bold. “Because I want that. Want you.”

Derek growls lows, a rumbling sound the vibrates against the skin behind Stiles’ ear. Stiles shudders, all resolve snapping as he turns quickly in Derek’s arms and presses a kiss onto his mouth.

The kiss is a key that unlocks their little game; it becomes fast and heady in moments, mouths moving in desperate licks and sucks.

“Jesus,” Stiles gasps when Derek cups him through his jeans, rubbing hard enough and just so perfect Stiles could probably come from it all too soon.

Stiles wants more, wants to be closer, bared naked and taking their time. They end up on the floor, leaning against the small stage, side by side, their limbs entwined while jacking each other off.

Stiles laughs right before he comes, saying, “This is fucking _art_.” Derek rolls his eyes, but kisses a bead of sweat rolling down Stiles’ temple, and the intimacy of it makes Stiles’ shoot his load all over Derek’s hand. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then gives Derek the best fucking handjob ever, thrilling when Derek closes his eyes and trembles apart at Stiles’ doing.

“I can’t wait to sketch our next time,” Stiles says, kissing Derek’s bare shoulder. It shakes under his lips as Derek laughs lowly, sounding pleased with that plan.

* * *

39.

The first time he tried this had been a disaster: an old man who kept calling him Carl, a group of dancing teenagers, and one girl who’d put a rabbit on the screen instead of herself. 

He went the second time because Peter made a comment about how he needed to meet people and that “kids today” were using Chatroulette. “It’ll be fun, Derek. Friends without ever leaving your ... classically gothic lifestyle.” 

Derek clicked into the chat and stared at his first partner, then tightened his grip on the keyboard and flicked a glanced at the door. He kept his eyes on hers as he slowly moved his mouse to --

“Hey daddy.”

He froze. The redhead winked and pulled the ends of two ropes. She moaned as the bonds twisted and pulled, as they wrapped around her breasts.

“I’ve been a naughty girl.”

Nope. Derek clicked the Next button and a man stared disinterestedly at him. Derek looked at the guy, the guy looked at back. Finally Derek gave a stilted wave, “Hey.”

The dude clicked out and Derek rolled his eyes. This was a mistake. He was about to log off, but figured three was the magic number. Another man came on the screen; his unbuttoned plaid shirt revealed smooth, defined muscle. Derek’s mouth watered and he made the chat full-screen. 

The man on the screen ran his hand around his neck. _Jesus, those fingers._ Two fingers disappeared above the screen then trailed down his chest leaving a wet sheen in their wake and Derek’s jaw dropped. The man’s fingers slid over his stomach and shook as he dropped them to the keyboard.

_Spkrs n mic fucked, u chat?_

Derek huffed a laugh and typed back, _Sure. You chat often?_

The guy didn’t reply immediately. He pushed back against a pillow, stretched out and pulled the computer closer. Derek saw a black vibrator and lube under the man’s knee and wondered where this was going. As the man typed something, his fingers swiftly moving over the keys, Derek realized he knew exactly where. And he was more than fine with that. 

_Often enough_

The man slid his fingers over his chest and tweaked his nipple, rolled the nub until it hardened and his body rolled with the pull. Derek’s eyes followed each movement and he felt himself harden. He licked his lips. 

_You always put on a show?_

_Dpnds on whose watching ;) y dnt u take smthng off, sxy_

Derek debated, then pulled his grey shirt off. The cold air pebbled his skin and his palms began to sweat; he spread his legs and ground into the friction of the denim. 

_U do ths often?_

Derek shook his head then typed, _First time._

_Good ;)_

Derek rolled his eyes and he started to type something back when he caught sight the keys on the table. His heart pounded in realization and he focused on the mole below the man’s chest, on the lacrosse stick barely in the corner, on the man’s fingers curling around his open shirt. _Fuck._ The man slid his shirt off familiar shoulders and tossed it off screen. 

_I take smthng off, U take smthng off_

Derek stared at the chat box; he looked straight into the camera and nodded. The other man made a show of pulling off his socks but Derek’s eye was on the lamp in the corner, on the blue wallpaper. He licked his lips and kicked his socks off, pulled one up to the camera and raised an eyebrow. 

He heard the rustle of the bedsheets through not-so-broken speakers and immediately tuned into the other sounds in the room. The other man cursed then pulled his jeans over his hips in an awkward display of skin and Derek watched as denim gave way to pale skin and a speckling moles.

The man wrapped his hand around his cock and his other disappeared offscreen. He jerked his hand slowly and Derek swallowed, slid his jeans over his hips. The man’s hand stilled and he cursed, groaned around another muffled word. 

Derek’s hands shook as he grabbed his phone, he kept it away from the camera’s eye and dialed. The X Files theme rang clear over the speakers and he smiled as he brought the phone to his ear. The man slipped, his elbow catching on the bed, and Derek saw the familiar cut of jaw and lips. The man licked his lips, “Hel...hello?”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“We really doing this?”

* * *

40.

_Once a year we gather to honor the gods for the growth of our crops and prosperity of our people. We offer seed and blood in hopes of good favor. These many years have been filled with drought and disease, cursed. For what sins we do not know, but the scales must soon tip in our favor for our very existence is threatened. In our desperation Lydia, leader of our people, has stepped forward as a willing sacrifice. A demand._

She lies bare on the altar, porcelain skin scrubbed clean and anointed with scented oil the night before. Her hair blazes bright in the twilight hour, burning like the wings of a phoenix. Seven chosen stand around her waiting for Stiles, the high priest, to begin the ceremony. Behind us the village is gathered. Their chants flood the clearing, filling the void with requests for blessings and mercy from the gods.

“Today we honor those that gave us life. Birthed us in their cradle and set us free to worship them. May the seed of our greatest warriors and the blood of our fairest maid please the gods. Let it begin.” With his words the clearing once again overflows with the cheering of our people. Their energy ebbs and flows through us, like a mighty chorus urging us forward.

“Derek.” It is my honor as leader of our army to take first and last.

As I position myself above her I find myself searching her face, even now waiting for her command, for we must be willing or the gods will never accept our offering. Pushing up to her elbows she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. She smirks, daring me to challenge her.

I cannot and so I press carefully forward, forward and in until her virgin’s blood mixes with the ceremonial oil reverently placed in preparation. Her back arches, body instinctively moving to ease the discomfort of my body between her thighs. We breathe. Then her nails dig into my forearms, chastising me my hesitance, and so I move. Matching my thrusts to the steady thrum of my heart until I groan and spill inside her.

 

We dare not waver.

“Isaac.” Stiles calls and my Second steps forward.

He’s far gentler than I, something I’ve never quite understood is how a man so vicious in battle could be so tender outside it. By the time he finds his release Lydia’s skin gleams with sweat and her face is flush with the beginnings of desire.

“Boyd.”

One by one my men step forward and find their place within her body, giving their seed to her to take to the gods. It’s a thing of beauty the way she allows them in, back arching and thighs clearly shaking with fatigue.

Each of the chosen have offered of themselves and it’s time for me to complete the circle. I take my time, pushing in slowly and dragging my cock in and out in the steadiest, surest of rhythms. This is about her pleasure now, her release to the heavens.

I use the spilt come of my brothers as lubrication to glide my fingers gently over her now engorged clit. She whimpers and clenches around me. It’s almost time. Stiles solemnly takes his place at the head of the altar, waiting.

“Now.” Lydia whispers. She’s ready to let go, to spill across the parched ground and fly alongside the lonely winds. Her body cries for release and her eyes demand our obedience. I speed my thrusts until I am overcome, my fingers bringing her flying over the edge with me.

“I will see it done.” She says with her last breath, just before Stiles slides the ceremonial dagger across her throat. The blood spills across her body and runs down the altar. It flows as if with purpose and the sacrifice is complete with her last fading breath.

“It is finished.” Stiles voice cracks dangerously with his proclamation and the village erupts in cheers. Clothes are soon discarded and through the night we will take each other in an effort to appease the gods.

As I leave to join the celebration I spare one last look for our fearless mistress. In life Lydia was the fairest of them all and in death her beauty supersedes anything of this realm.

The gods will be pleased. I can feel it in my bones.

* * *

41.

If there is a wall, and there is Derek Hale, Stiles is guaranteed to be slammed against it. For this reason alone, Stiles has timed his home invasion carefully, during Derek’s evening run. 

The whole place is creepy as fuck. How anyone could live here… The air is stale and damp, thick with the scent of ash. He picks his way up the blackened stairs, skirting fallen beams and holes in the floor. There’s not much to rifle through in Derek’s charred shell of a room - a half-burned dresser, a sleeping bag covered with a pillow and an incongruously white sheet. A duffle-bag spilling over with clothing. Broken furniture, scattered debris. There had to be something here to connect Derek to the string of brutal murders in town. Sure, he’d been absolved of his sister’s death, but the creep was hiding something. Stiles didn’t know what he’d find – receipts, photos, a signed confession – look, real detectives never knew what they were looking for ‘til it turned up, right? 

Thank God for creaking hinges – Stiles has time to dive under the broken desk at the foot of the sleeping-bag as heavy were-feet storm the stairs two at a time. Then Derek’s in the room, stripping off his sodden t-shirt and washing up in the adjacent bathroom. Stiles weighs his chances of sneaking out, but it’s too late. There’s the sound of water dumped down the drain, and Derek’s back.

The guy must be oblivious. Stiles is RIGHT THERE, but Derek’s standing there with nothing on but a towel slung low over his hips, body dripping with water, and this is where Stiles wishes he’d snuck away when he had the chance, because Derek is whisking the towel off to scrub his wet hair, his naked junk on display at eye level. And holy fuck, what an eyeful.

Tossing the towel over a broken chair, Derek stretches out on his bedroll. Stiles groans inwardly – there’s no way he can reveal himself, not with Derek there in all his glory. He settles in, hoping Derek will have a nap or something.

He’s not napping. Fuck. He’s pulled out his phone, reading emails or something. His other hand is drifting southwards, dragging absentmindedly through his happy trail. He’s not hard, but his dick is gorgeous – thick, heavy, uncut. 

 

As his dick begins to show some interest, Derek’s movements become deliberate and his dick grows impossibly thicker. His fingertips stroke upwards, circling the tip, gathering a drop of pre-cum to smooth the glide. He palms his dick with his other hand, pulling his foreskin downwards into a stretch that leaves the pink tip of his cockhead peeking through. He teases a fingernail deep into the foreskin, probing.

He fists a few strokes, eventually pulling his foreskin down. He doesn’t reach for any lube – just arches into his grip, forcing the head to emerge out the top of his fist, pulling back until the foreskin pulls generously over the top.

When he’s close, Derek eases his grip, thrusting into the ring of thumb and index finger, ring finger extending downwards until it reaches Derek’s hole. With no lube, he forces the tip of his finger into his hole, curling it to pull back at his rim. He has no leeway, sharp, shallow thrusts grinding his pelvic bone against the heel of his hand.

With a moan he arcs up, coming in thick white pulses, then he’s panting, fisting his cock softly as he rides the last of the aftershocks. When his hips give a final, Derek gathers up congealing come, feeding it to himself on two fingers.

It’s more than Stiles can take. With a shout, he comes untouched into his jeans.

Derek leaps from his bedroll, yelling “What the fuck, Stiles?”

Stiles stands, dazed from his orgasm. They stand off against each other, Derek freaking, and Stiles sobbing in terror.

Derek runs a hand over his face. “Searching my room? You… saw?”

Stiles nods. “Yeeeeah. I thought... You had to know – your wolfy senses…”

Derek snorts in disgust. “Where do you get your info, D&D? Just… GET OUT!”

 

As the door slammed shut after him, Stiles had an inkling there would be an entirely new intensity to any wall-slamming in his future.

* * *

42.

"You have a ridiculous amount of shit, you know that?" Danny tapes yet another box closed.

"You didn't have to help, asshole," Jackson says, poking his head out of the closest.

Danny's hand is tangled in bits of silk. A single stocking slips through his fingers, unfurling to its full length. "Uh, do you have a box for Lydia's stuff?"

Jackson's pulse thunders in his ears. It would be so easy to lie and laugh it off. There are things he can't tell Danny, not if he wants to keep him safe, but Jackson’s leaving tomorrow; he can at least be honest about this.

"They aren't Lydia's. They're mine."

"Oh."

"I wear them sometimes, when things get to be too much."

"Oh," Danny says again.

Jackson clenches his jaw. "Listen, it's getting kind of late, so—"

"Can I see?"

"What?" Jackson doesn't think Danny would fuck with him, not about this, but he can't have heard him right.

"I want to see," Danny says. "I mean, if it's okay?"

"Yeah?"

Danny nods, gesturing for Jackson to come closer.

Jackson takes the bundle of lingerie from Danny's hand, placing it back in the drawer and gripping the edge of the dresser. He's terrified and excited; he's never dressed for anyone else before, not even Lydia.

The bedsprings creak and a quick look in the mirror confirms Danny has backed away to give him some space, and is sitting on the bed, watching him from behind.

Despite his nerves, Jackson knows he has no reason to be shy about his body. He undresses quickly and pulls on his favorite panties, a pair of crimson lace boyshorts with a deep vee in back that barely cover his ass.

When he bends over to pull on matching fishnets, Danny's moan gives him a much needed ego boost. He drags the stockings slowly up his legs, loving the way the wide weave shows off his muscles and clings to his skin. After adjusting the thick lace bands on the top of each thigh, he turns around, shifting from foot to foot.

"Oh fuck," Danny chokes out. His eyes are half-lidded as they travel up and down Jackson's body.

Jackson smirks, self-confidence building with each step he takes toward the bed. "I didn't know you were into this."

"I could say the same for you." Danny props himself up against the headboard. "And fuck off. I'm sixteen. Aside from dicks, I don't know what I'm into."

"Now what?" Jackson hates the uncertainty in his voice.

Danny swallows thickly. "I know wearing panties doesn't make you gay, but will you show me what you usually do?"

Aside from a few experimental kisses with Danny when they were younger, Jackson has never been with a guy. He's curious though, and likes the way Danny is watching him. He lies down, looking at the prominent outline of his dick stretching the lace, and the criss-cross pattern on his thighs.

Jackson feels the warmth radiating from Danny's body. His eyes close as he begins to touch himself, nipples tightening with every gust of Danny's breath against his skin. He reaches down and rubs himself through the panties.

"Tell me what it feels like," Danny whispers.

"A little scratchy, rough." Jackson squeezes the head of his cock, feeling the sticky wetness leaking from the tip and soaking into the lace.

"Can you—" Danny's voice hitches. "Will you pull them down?"

Jackson peels the panties down, hooking them under his balls. Danny takes a shaky breath when he wraps his fingers around his cock and begins to stroke.

"Fuck, you look good."

It's a heady feeling, knowing Danny is worked up over how he looks in lacy underwear. The sharp tang of their arousal is overwhelming; Jackson wonders if Danny can smell it too.

Jackson opens his eyes when Danny groans. His cock is straining against his zipper and he's rubbing himself through the fabric.

"You can take your dick out, if you want."

"Later," Danny groans.

Jackson spreads his knees a little wider, presses a finger behind his balls and fucks up into his fist.

"C'mon. Want to see you come."

That's all it takes. Jackson comes in long spurts across his stomach, thighs trembling as he works himself through it and squeezes the last drops from his cock.

He doesn't know what will happen next, or when they'll see each other again, but he feels so good. When Danny leans over to kiss him, Jackson meets him halfway.

* * *

43.

Stiles hadn't meant for it to happen, but he couldn't stop himself. He could see the way they looked at him now, with his new curves, breasts full and hair falling down his back. Their eyes were fixated, following his every move.

They were _hungry_.

"Come here," Stiles orders, and drags Derek over him, between his naked thighs, while Lydia kneads circles on his scalp. They still have clothes on, all three, as Stiles presses his head into Lydia's lap and Derek mouths at his collarbone.

" _Fuck_ ," Stiles breathes, feeling the slickness between his thighs with the pad of his finger.

" _Stiles_ ," Lydia says, and how many years has he waited to hear her say his name like that? Her nipples are hard, and Stiles reaches out to touch, pinch them until she cries his name again and Stiles has to silence her with his mouth.

Derek is nuzzling Stiles' neck still, leaving dark bruises; moles remain scattered like constellations, even on his breasts. Derek's dick is hanging hard against Stiles' thigh, the tip leaving wet trails that make the bottom of his stomach drop with indescribable lust.

"I want," Derek is panting in Stiles' ear as he watches the way Lydia's tongue licks her lips.

"What do you want, Derek?" Stiles tilts his face up, his hair wild, but Lydia pushes it back for him.

"I want you," Derek growls, and his hand dips down to nudge at the wet folds between Stiles' thighs. He lets out a whine, and suddenly one of Derek's fingers is filling him up, stretching his dripping cunt wide open. "I want to touch you, I want to _fuck_ you."

"Yes," Lydia whispers eagerly, "I want to see him fuck you, Stiles."

He should say no. (Not like this, not when he knows that what they want isn't really _Stiles_ , but this body he now inhabits.)

Yet, he can't bring himself to. Saying no would mean to not have this. To not have Derek, who hates him. To not have Lydia, who resents him.

Stiles isn't enough when he's a man.

"Yeah," he nods, rocking his hips down so Derek's finger fills him up completely, and _oh_."Fuck me."

Derek bites grooves into Stiles' jaw, and then there's two fingers, three. Stiles' body opens up like it was made for them, and he shudders and cries as Derek fucks him open with rough thrusts of his wrist.

Lydia's panties are soaked when Stiles pulls them open; he licks inside and she _screams_. Stiles likes it, likes how she sounds and how she tastes and how _huge_ Derek's fingers are inside of him. He manoeuvres his arm, and then he's finger-deep in her cunt.

" _Stiles!_ she cries, and twists down, fucking onto his finger. "Don't stop, _please don't stop_."

Stiles would assure he would never stop, but then Derek's fingers are gone, and his cock is there. Stiles tears his eyes from Lydia to stare up, at the red heat in Derek's eyes. He looks hungry, but he also looks uncertain, and Stiles doesn't want to see that.

"Fill me up, buttercup," he purrs, and uses his free hand to wrap around Derek's thick dick, guiding him in.

One blink and the uncertainty is gone. Derek pushes in, hard and fast, and Stiles feels the breath punched out of him. His hand flies up to Derek's neck to hold on, adjust to how _huge_ it feels, but sweat makes his grip slippy. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," Stiles chants as Derek thrusts in deep.

Stiles' fingers in Lydia try to match Derek's rhythm, but it's impossible; soon it's just a writhing mess of bodies, and Derek begins to lose it. Determined to get Lydia there first, Stiles twists his fingers hard, fucking in one more time, and she screams as her orgasm crests.

"Jesus," Stiles whispers, and as Lydia slumps back, his hand moves to his own wetness, where his and Derek's bodies are joined, and then he's falling off the edge, mother _fucker_.

" _Shit!_ " Stiles gasps, and the backs of his eyelids go white.

He comes back to with Lydia's mouth hovering over his. Distantly, Stiles acknowledges that Derek is still fucking him, and he's close, he's got to be, so he reaches out a hand to float over Derek's racing heart and whispers an echo:

"Fill me up, buttercup."

Derek howls as he comes, and Stiles feels it rushing into him, hot and full. He buries his face in Lydia's neck, clutching Derek's chest.

He won't let them go.

* * *

44.

She didn’t even realize she was bleeding until everything was over.

Her dad was standing with Derek and inspecting the bodies of the creatures that had been tearing through Beacon Hills resident. Scott had his arm wrapped around Isaac who was still healing after one of them had almost torn him in half.

He’d stopped meeting her eyes sometime after she had called her dad to come help. She was trying to help but the way he had looked at her was the way he had been looking at her since Boyd had come back without Erica.

Scott was settling Isaac into his mom’s car, his back to her.

That’s when she felt the burn on her forearm.

Before she could inspect it Stiles was at her side, his hands gentle on her arm as he lifted it up. The cut was a angry red line that stretched from the inside of her elbow to her wrist. It was bleeding steadily and the more she looked at it the more it burned. Mixed in with the red where specks of blue that matched the color of the creatures skin.

She tried to pull her arm out of his grip, wanting to curl it closer to her and deal with it when she got home.

He just huffed and held tight, his nails a duller sting that she could focus on. “Here,” he had a wrap of bandages in his hand. His movements were quick and practiced.

“Thanks,” Allison was grateful that at least someone was talking to her.

“No problem.” he tied it off and tucked the rest into his back pocket. “I can give you a ride home?” he offered and that had gotten Scott’s attention.

He was watching them now, hand on the door of the car and eyes hard.

Stiles was holding out his hand.

She laced her fingers with his feeling a small shock as their skin touched and instantly dismissing it. She let him pull her towards his jeep, ignoring the burn of Scott’s eyes on their backs.

~*~

She had asked him to come in.

He’d looked lost and the words had come out before she could think them through.

She let her bow drop to the floor and turned to face him. Her skin felt flushed and there was an itch building under the surface.

Stiles stood in the middle of her room and rubbed at the back of his neck. His shirt pulled up at the motion and Allison moved forward fingers tracing the slash of blue tinged red that marred his skin. She hadn’t seen it, his shirt was dark and the closer she got the more she could see the frayed edges of her the claws had torn through. His scratches were deeper then hers had been.

“You should put something on that.” his skin was hot against her hand and she felt the way it rippled at her touch. Their eyes meet and his fingers wrapped around her wrist the shock back, sizzling between them

“Yeah,” his voice was rough and she didn’t know who moved first. They crashed together into a rough kiss. His hands dug into her hair, tilting back her mouth and Allison pulled his shirt up dragging the blood against his skin.

They pulled back long enough for him to pull his shirt off over his head and when they meet again his fingers were digging into her hips. He spun her around until her back was pressed up against his chest. Her fingers were shaking as she undid the button on her jeans, pushing them off and she felt him shift behind her and do the same.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against his shoulder as she felt the heat of his dick against the back of her thighs. She was wet and he slid easily into her, pressing in steadily. One arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him and the other cupper her, teasing at her clit.

He set a rough pace and she moaned, shaking in his arms and arching her back as she tried to catch her breath. She turned her head and they breathed against each other. His pupils were blown wide and his heartbeat was thundering against her chest, matching hers. The cut on her arm was throbbing and they were burning up together. Allison didn’t care, needing more. 

Neither of them saw the pair of golden eyes watching them from her window.

* * *

45.

_”Stiles? Are you done yet?”_

At his father’s somewhat aggravated yell form inside the house, Stiles bolted up from the box he’d been sitting on and guiltily shoved the old gaming magazine into the waiting trash bag. 

“Almost, sir,” he yelled back, hoping his father wouldn’t come into the garage and see that he wasn’t, in fact, anywhere near done. He hurriedly shoved the rest of the magazines into the trash bag, then dragged it to join the others sitting on the driveway. “Just a little bit--“ His father appeared in the doorway. 

“Longer.”

His father sighed, shoved a hand through his hair then shoved his hat on. “I’ve got to get to work. Finish before I get home, got that?”

Stiles glanced at the mess remaining, but nodded. “Yes sir.”

The moment his father’s truck turned the corner Stiles sat down again. This was not exactly how he’d planned to spend his Saturday. Derek’d promised he’d be back in town that afternoon and the last thing Stiles wanted was to be hot and sweaty when he saw him. It was fine if Derek was the reason for being hot and sweaty but-- 

Stiles’ eye caught sight of the corner of a red box hidden beneath some old blankets. Curious, he walked over and pulled the box out. “What the--?” He stared at the box in disbelief. The dust and grime covering it did little to hide the picture on the box of a young laughing woman bolted to a wall. Naked. 

What was his dad doing with something like _this?_

He opened the box, noting the packing slip inside. His face heated furiously when he saw the date, and the name on the slip. His mother’s, and before he was born.

Fuck, _Parents._ He could’ve lived the rest of his life without finding this box.

Then Stiles had an idea... He finished cleaning the garage in record time, threw the box into his Jeep and drove off. Hopefully he had time to set things up before Derek got there.

* * *

Maybe the blindfold had been a bad idea.

Plus, it was sort of cold to be bolted flat against a wall, his jewels hanging out. 

The problem was, though he’d managed to set up the wall mounts himself and even slip into them for the most part (not quite like the girl on the box - he was not that stupid, or brave), but now that he’d slid his free hand into the binding, he couldn’t get it out again. But he was hard and weeping and excited and this was going to be so fucking awesome...

Then he heard footsteps approach. “Well well, what do we have here?” 

_Fuck._

“P-peter?” Stiles whimpered as a hand ran down his bare leg. “Is that you? Where’s Derek?”

A hand covered his mouth. “Shhh, pretty boy. You were waiting for Derek?” Stiles struggled to get free but the vice-like grip over his mouth stilled him. “I know you’re disappointed. Don’t go away. Hear?” Peter’s chuckle sent ice through Stiles’ veins. The footsteps walked away and he was left shaking and dammit he was hard. 

The footsteps returned, slow and deliberate, and stopped in front of him. “Peter?”

“Shh...” The hand covered his mouth again, but another hand grabbed his aching, weeping cock. 

Stiles gasped as whoever it was omg not Peter omg Derek would kill him and then it would be his, Stiles-the-idiot’s, fault, and then there’d be a war between all the werewolves and the Argents would come out shooting and, “FUCK!” he yelled as a hot mouth descended on his cock.

Teeth scraped as the mouth descended, then pulled back again. Fingers played with his balls, teasing his hole, making him writhe and moan but he’d done too damn good of a job with the bondage equipment and he could not move.

The pull on his cock was mind-blowing. His whole body shook as he moaned with every descent of the hot mouth. Guilt and excitement flashed through him; he was hot, so fucking hot, omg Derek would be so fucking pissed how would he make it up to him? Fuck fuck _fuck_ he was going to blow into Peter’s mouth...

“Stiles, come for me, baby.”

A sob tore through Stiles as he obeyed and shot his hot come into Derek’s mouth. When he was spent, and a grinning Derek pulled the blindfold away, all Stiles could say was, “You _bastard!”_

Derek just laughed.

* * *

46.

Lydia tested the traps, stepped delicately around the series of trip wires. There had been a sharp learning curve involved-- physics hadn’t been her strongest.

What had once been the Sunshine Toy co. was now her empire and she was ruler here. Everything was under her control in a way it hadn’t been since before everyone died.

\--

Erica’s parents had seemed kind of crazy to everyone else, not the collecting people’s ears kind of crazy but the more benign conspiracy theorists. Her mother still thought her childhood seizures were alien messages.

Still they died before they could use the stock-piled food and water in the basement. Erica had beat her mother to death with a lacrosse stick and stabbed her father in the eye. It was the least she could do.

\--

Jackson probably would have been an alcoholic fuck-up, too rich to see sense, to emotionally damaged to understand why everything felt wrong. Only the world ended and something bigger took over instead.

\--

Erica and Jackson sort of hated each other in school, he was the all-star and she was the freak from the wrong side of the tracks. Her house caught fire, she killed his neighbour and saved his life. There was _no one else_ but each other after that and all those things that seemed so important suddenly ceased to exist.

There was only the dead.

\--

Lydia found them. They were like a pair of alley cats, distrustful and vicious. Almost feral. Lydia lived in her empire of half-made dolls and boxes of stuffed toys.

Girl had a gun pointed at her face, her blond hair looked like someone had cut it recently with a pair of dull scissors and her dark eyes were fever bright. The man behind her was too-thin by far, body pulled tight in a fight or flight response.

She was gambling here, hoping to hit the snake eyes. “Relax,” Lydia purred, “nothing here but us.”

“And them,” the male nodded his head at the undead as they beat themselves senselessly against the bay windows that were keeping them out of the gutted Macy’s. 

“And them.” Lydia agreed graciously.

\--

Lydia bit her fingernails ragged. She’d brought them back because, because, because -- _damnit_ should couldn’t remember any more. They were interlopers in her kingdom.

Jackson looked at her, cautious and callous, as if he had never learned to be anything else. Erica was aggressive, and they clashed hard while drawing lines in the sand. Lydia hated it, this was hers to control and suddenly everything was different and she didn’t know what she would do if she lost everything again.

\--

Lydia plotted to kill them-- until something worse came along.

They blundered into her kingdom, disgusting and filthy. They easily circumvent the traps, they were made to keep out the dead, the only brains the dead have are the ones being digested.

“Oh, got a pretty one.” One says.

Lydia was spitting furious (and scared).

It was something like a revelation when Jackson splattered his brain all over.

\--

This had probably been a nice house once. Surely the people who lived in it were nice (S&M porn hidden in the back of the closet, Lydia had only wanted a new blouse; flicking through pages that got her hot).

“There’s a good girl,” Lydia smoothed Erica’s hair back. Erica looked up at her, smile curling rough around the edges and pulled back to tease Lydia’s clit with only the tip of her finger. Wordlessly saying **‘make me’**.

Lydia bit off a sound, snarled her fingers in her hair and pulled her up for a rough kiss. She was sitting on an end-table, one foot on the ground, Erica’s head cradled in her lap.

Erica whined high in the back of her throat as Jackson’s hips stuttered forward, desperate, shoving her forward a little breaking their kiss.

He was staring at them, hot-eyed and possessive. Lydia curled her fingers into Erica’s hair and rode her fingers jerkily while Jackson fucked her hard.

“Come on Jacks,” Lydia breathed, “give it to her, she wants it.”

Jackson’s chin hit his chest, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He came helplessly at the sound of her voice, moan strangled in his throat.

He ate his come right out of Erica when Lydia told him to, getting his face messy.

They lay in a tangled pile of hair and limbs on the floor, coming down. She was Queen of a new kingdom now.

* * *


	8. Group D - No Warnings or Pairings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning -- This chapter contains art that is not safe for work (NSFW).

47.

It takes weeks of planning and wheedling, but in the end, Stiles manages to get Derek (mostly) into costume as Dr. Frank N. Furter for a night out at Rocky Horror. Stiles has to admit, he loves Derek’s leather briefs, but even more than that, he can’t wait to get him alone so he can unwrap him in private.

* * *

48.

* * *

49.

[](http://i.imgur.com/b5a373c.jpg)

* * *

50.

* * *

51.

* * *

52.


End file.
